


A Study in Spherification

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Anal Sex, Cooking, London, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock Cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 21:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8225561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: John Watson has been out of work for eighteen months after his last restaurant, Fifth Northumberland, burned to the ground in a kitchen accident. He's more than ready for a new project, but who wants to open a restaurant with a washed up celebrity chef who can't even hold a knife anymore?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a lot of thanks to a lot of people, but we'll start with LadyRedCrest and bilbospantaloons, whose enthusiasm drives me, and Jaradel and 1electricpirate whose oversight keeps my story in line. This has been in progress since 2013, I think, and still isn't really finished. It would be nice to finish it before series 4 airs. /o\ CHEFS.
> 
> This fic is updated weekly on Thursday mornings. [Blame Meg.](http://daunt.tumblr.com/tagged/chef)

The heat of the television set lights beat down on the top of John's head, and he could feel slow trickle of sweat making its way down the back of his neck. The kitchen was as real as a kitchen ever was, until it reached the edge of the island made of prep tables and ovens and the darkness of the stage took over. Cooking here meant stepping out of his natural habitat of steam and hot pans and chef whites into a strange world of cameras and cords and chaps in bulky headsets. It was disconcerting at first, but after eight weeks on the show he was well used to it. The lights, though—not even years spent in the demonstration kitchens at Le Cordon Bleu or the tight, loud, humid kitchen of Fifth Northumberland in the midst of the dinner rush could prepare him for working under these lights and among these egos.

Beside John, Harry was cursing under her breath. She had an immersion blender in her hand which kept getting stuck in the avocado paste that should have been guacamole by now. John suspected the avocados weren't as ripe as they ought to be—either she'd picked lousy ones, or the studio was fucking with them—but it was too late to change tack now. They were making mini tacos for this round of _SuperChef: Doubles_ , come hell or high water.

Under the steady, quick rise-and-fall of John’s knife, the bruise-purple and blood-red heirloom tomatoes were diminishing in size until they were reduced to a brunoise. He had “naked salsa” in mind for them: tossed with a little lime juice and topped with a sprinkling of coriander, they would pair perfectly with the guacamole, chicken, and other tortilla fillings.

The tortillas themselves were handmade of cornmeal, and were waiting to be rolled out and quickly fried on the griddle. Harry's gap year in Mexico was paying off in ways their parents hadn't anticipated. John, too, had been convinced she'd spent the whole time drinking tequila and seducing the local dark-eyed señoritas. Apparently not; or at least, not _only_. Harry's host mum had been a hell of a cook, and Harry had used her rag-tag chef training to bring some of her authentic recipes to their peak potential–for British palates, at least.

"John, this thing is fucked," Harry hissed at him, giving the blender one last vengeful jab into the avocado.

"Give it here," John said, sweeping the tomato brunoise into a glass bowl and setting it aside. "How's the chicken looking?" He took the blender from her.

Harry said, "Shit," and yanked open the oven. At once, they were engulfed in the smell of smoke and burnt fowl. John's gag reflex kicked once, but he kept his stomach down. Harry shoved her hands into the oven gloves and pulled out the dish. "It's fine, John, look."

The chicken _was_ fine. It was golden and crispy on the outside, and when Harry cut into it, the inside was white and perfect. John turned the blender on again. There was a camera coming their way: distress always drew the attention of the judges and the producers.

"Okay," John said, pointing at an empty spot on the table. "Put it there and then get the tortillas on the griddle. I'll handle the rest of the fillings. Work your magic, Harry."

Harry winked at him, grinning and cheeky, and went to prepare the griddle. John looked at the chicken, then at the guacamole, the salsa, and the beans that were soaking and still needed to be cooked. Everything in Mexico was eaten mashed anyway, he thought. He'd never been there. He doubted many of the judges had been. The rice, simmering gently on the hob, caught his attention again. If he forgot about it for too long it would be ruined.

John felt a thrill of pleasure go down his back. This was what he loved about cooking. Keeping balls in the air, or pots on the stove, was what he lived for. John visualised the final dish, imagined setting it before the judges and watching their impassive faces for the slightest trace of an opinion. Fifty-three minutes on the clock.

A camera team had descended on them, the microphone hovering over Harry's head as she described the way her tortillas were coming together. John half-listened to her story of her gap year, the family she'd stayed with, and how she'd learned to cook authentic Mexican food from her host mum. This was the stuff the producers really loved: that Harry wasn't professionally trained.

John picked up the bowl of half-mashed guacamole, extracted the immersion blender, and set to mashing by hand. It resulted in a more rustic texture than initially planned, but he decided that would work. With the handmade tortillas and the shredded chicken, plus Harry's story about her Mexican sojourn, rustic was good.

Harry was still talking, all the while plucking off bits of dough, rolling it between her hands, and flattening it carefully on the countertop. They didn't have a tortilla press, so she was making do. She turned the dough and flattened again, turned and flattened, and then peeled it up carefully and passed it a few times between her hands before she laid it gently on the griddle. John heard the griddle hiss, and the cameraman leaned in to get a closer shot. Harry watched as the tortilla crisped, and then she peeled it off and flipped it over.

A moment later, Rhys Simmons, the host of _SuperChef: Doubles _, was there at the station, ready to take the tortilla and taste it. John hadn't expected this particular aspect of cooking for telly, but of course the final episode was all telly magic bullshit. The judges came by during the preparation to taste everything while it was hot, because the final result was almost always room temperature by the time the filmed judging began. But, they'd been assured, the judges never held tepid food and congealed sauces against them. There was nothing anyone could do about the physics of food tasting except edit like crazy.__

__Harry gave up the first tortilla to Rhys’s scrutiny and carried on making a half a dozen more while John supplied the judges with samples of the lime rice and the salsa. Another look at the clock told him they had half an hour. Plenty of time._ _

__Something about the kitchen was strange, John realised. Instead of the familiar kitchen set, he and Harry were back in the kitchen at Fifth Northumberland, with the radio playing underneath the din of pots and pans and sizzling oil. John smelled smoke again, somewhere, but it disappeared as soon as he recognised it. Rhys Simmons was still there, chatting with Harry, though the camera had gone. How were they supposed to fit a whole team of cameras into their little kitchen, anyway?_ _

__John went about shredding the chicken and seasoning it while Harry took the tortillas off the griddle and set them aside. Once they were all lined up, she picked up the nearest piping bag and John scooped the finished guacamole into it. He retrieved his salsa while she was piping little swirls onto the tortillas, and, following behind her, arranged the tiny squares of tomato in between the avocado lines. She finished and retrieved the pot of beans, cooked now. Each mini taco got four beans, carefully placed, which John then topped, each in turn, with a delicate squirt of sour cream. Slices of jalapeño peppers went atop that, followed by the chicken, and then a few deliberately arranged shreds of cheese. A sprinkle of coriander finished the piece. They were little mountains of Mexican flavour, John thought, admiring their handiwork._ _

__The radio played on in the background. They weren't supposed to have music on during filming, but perhaps since they were back in the Fifth Northumberland kitchen it was all right._ _

__The judges filed in: Rhys Simmons led the way, followed by Tina Pemberton, host of the midday Channel 2 cooking show Your Kitchen; Yvonne Wilkes, the head chef at Salt and the author of at least six cookbooks, all of which John owned; and finally Scott McGuigan, a food critic and restaurant reviewer for The Guardian. John remembered the first day he'd met each of them, and how he'd been a bit of a gibbering idiot. He'd actually giggled while shaking hands with Yvonne Wilkes. She was a bloody clever chef, and gorgeous to boot. He hadn't been able to help it. She hadn't appeared to mind—she must get that all the time—and soon John's nervousness faded. He was even able to keep a cool head during the judging process now that they were eight weeks in and well on their way to the finals._ _

__Harry, on the other hand, was fidgeting beside him, chewing her fingernails. Her hair was falling out of its bun and slipping out from beneath her white cap, wispy strands framing her face. John gave her a nudge and she stopped, scowling, and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. She set to chewing her lip instead._ _

__The judges lined up on the other side of the service counter and surveyed the array of mini tacos with what John hoped was interest rather than skepticism. He still thought they should have supplied the judges with knives and forks, like they usually did, but Harry insisted that the best way for them to experiences the tortillas was to feel them in their hands. Now she looked like she doubted herself._ _

__"Tell us what we have here, John," Rhys said, gesturing at the array. The cameras had reappeared and were now hovering, taking up too much space. They were very close to John's face as he opened his mouth to explain._ _

__"We've gone with Mexican-inspired miniature tacos," John said, his hands firmly interlocked behind his back. "There are handmade Mexican corn tortillas, with shredded lime chicken, fresh guacamole, naked tomato salsa, American-style refried beans, mature cheddar cheese, and sour cream."_ _

__"How do we go about this, then?" Tina Pemberton asked, pointing with her long, square fingernails._ _

__"You pick them up," Harry said, "and you eat them."_ _

__John gave her a look of exasperation. She'd never gotten the hang of schmoozing with the judges. It had gotten them into a few scrapes early on, when Harry's attitude had clashed so badly with the studio's impression of what the chef hierarchy should be. At Fifth Northumberland, even though John was the one with a proper qualification, he and Harry shared the top. The sous chefs, at least, knew better than to question Harry's BA in History._ _

__They had to watch in silence as the judges picked up, examined, sniffed, and eventually tasted the little tacos. John tried not to read upside-down the notes each judge made in their notebook, but he couldn't help it. Rhys had had consistently good things to say about their dishes throughout the run, while Tina usually nitpicked. Yvonne could go either way: sometimes she was impressed by ideas and flavour combinations, and sometimes she thought no one was trying hard enough. Scott liked Harry in particular, but John seemed to rub him the wrong way. It made for an emotional rollercoaster when it came to putting food in front of all of them, but that was the point._ _

__John was hot, hotter than he should have been with just him and Harry in the kitchen. It was the set lights again, beating down on them. John hadn't seen any footage yet of any of the previous episodes, but he was certain there were going to be lots of close-ups of his red, sweaty face. Certainly more of them, the farther into the season they got and the fewer competitors they had to share screen time with._ _

__"Thank you for your dishes, chefs," Rhys said, and the judges filed out the kitchen door again._ _

__It felt like only a moment before Jess, the PA with glossy red hair and lips to match, came to get them. "Watsons, you're up," she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the door._ _

__John blinked. That was too soon. Surely the judges still had to taste the other dishes. Or were they already at the final already? What had happened to Maurice and Tim, who always ended up having a shouting match despite the dish or theme? Or Lydia and Dinah, who always over-planned and consistently ran out of time? John suspected they were all being kept in the show for drama, but now he couldn't remember whether they'd been booted yet or not._ _

__"Come on," Harry said, taking his hand. His arm ached and protested. He grumbled something in protest, but she ignored him and pulled him out of the kitchen._ _

__They stepped through the door and, instead of ending up in the bright, homey dining room of Fifth Northumberland, they were back on the stage. It was dark all around them, the set an island amid the cameras. The judges sat behind the long desk, waiting, their faces like masks. John and Harry stood on the marks they were accustomed to with a camera pointed at each of their faces._ _

__"John, Harry," Rhys said, "welcome back to the stage."_ _

__"Thank you," Harry and John said, almost in unison._ _

__"Let's talk about your dish. Harry, your tortillas were amazing."_ _

__Harry let out a little breath of relief and John saw her crack a smile. "Thank you," she said again._ _

__"They were warm and soft and fresh, and we really haven't seen that kind of far-afield inspiration here lately. I think there's been a fad of East-Asian food on this show lately, and it was refreshing to have something drawn from the New World. Well done."_ _

__Harry ducked her head in acknowledgement, her smile widening._ _

__"John," Rhys went on, "the chicken was very nicely done. It was moist and flavourful, and the lime accent really gave it a nice kick. The other fillings were well-balanced in terms of flavour, texture, and variety. Great dish, both of you."_ _

__John nodded once. "Thank you."_ _

__Their focus shifted to Tina, who didn't look as impressed. She never was._ _

__"It wasn't a very inventive dish," she said. "In my opinion, you didn't reach deep enough into your experience with the food and the culture, Harry, and you just offered us the first, easiest thing you could think of."_ _

__Harry opened her mouth to make a retort, but John silenced her with a look. He could smell smoke again. Maybe they ought to turn the lights down a little. Could the set catch fire just from their heat? His shoulder throbbed and he squeezed his left hand into a fist in a futile attempt to relieve some of the tension._ _

__"I thought it was refreshing," Yvonne put in, "to have some authentic Mexican flavours. I like that you spent time there, as well. Plenty of chefs visit places just to cook, but you actually lived in Mexico. You speak Spanish fluently, isn't that true?"_ _

__Harry grinned. " _Sí, es la verdad_ ," she said._ _

__The judges gave her a ripple of polite laughter._ _

__Then Yvonne asked, "John, what did you contribute?"_ _

__"Honestly, I let Harry lead this one," John said. "She knew what she wanted, and I let her tell me what needed to happen. We work together that way at the restaurant, trading off the leadership position depending on what dishes we're working on. I think it's part of what makes us successful as a team."_ _

__Scott spoke up. "I thought there was too much lime," he said, pursing his lips as if remembering the sourness. "Lime in the guacamole, lime in the rice, lime in the chicken: it was overpowering. It would have been better if you'd had lime as an optional accent."_ _

__Privately John disagreed, but judges were judges, and Scott was a food critic. Not that food critics didn't have obvious and measurable preferences, just like everyone else, even if he did use the word "umami" ten times more frequently than anyone belonging to the general public._ _

__There was the smell of smoke again. Something was definitely burning. John turned around to look, wondering why no one else seemed to have noticed, but everything outside the ring of stage lights was too dark to see._ _

__Tim and Marian appeared at the edge of the set and stepped into the glare. John frowned. They weren't supposed to be at his and Harry's judging—except he remembered now that this was the final challenge, and Jesus Christ, had they seriously made _tacos_ for the final judging? That hadn't been the challenge. They'd been tasked with a three course meal, to be served to their families, and they hadn't made nearly enough food. John looked at Harry, swamped with terror at their unbelievable oversight, and saw that she was listing a bit. She caught him looking and winked, her smile uneven._ _

__She was _drunk_. How had he not noticed? Something had gone horribly wrong. She'd been really keeping it together while they were on the set. John had deliberately ignored her two drinks every evening after they were done with filming, as he usually had a beer himself and couldn't reconcile himself to be such a hypocrite, even if she'd had trouble with the booze before. She'd never been drunk on set before, though._ _

__"Don't worry, Johnny," she murmured, sliding her arm through his. "We're just celebrating! Come on, Clara's here."_ _

__In his other hand, his left hand, was the letter of consolation they had received from _SuperChef: Doubles_. They hadn’t won the show with their tacos—at the last minute Tim and Marian had turned out a top quality Asian fusion meal that set them above John and Clara. Still, their measurable success had landed John a cookbook deal, and he was supposed to make a killing on that._ _

__"I can't believe _you_ are going to write a cookbook," Harry said, laughing, pulling him off the stage. The door to the Fifth Northumberland kitchen materialised in front of them again, and she let go of him to push it open. Smoke curled around the edges of the door, and she stepped heedless into a heavy, grey cloud._ _

__"Harry, no," John said, reaching after her, but she was gone. The radio was playing somewhere, far away on a shelf over the chest freezers, and Harry and Clara were both in here somewhere. He had to find the fire. He had to find his sister!_ _

__Smoke filled his lungs and he coughed, pressing the elbow of his shirt over his mouth and nose. His eyes watered as the wall of heat hit him. It was the same heat he'd felt under the lights, only now it was everywhere, pressing on his skin, all around him. He crouched down, trying to get under the smoke, and his vision swam. He couldn't see Harry or Clara, but they'd ducked in here when when he'd gone to bed. He'd been celebrating with them at the start, and then he'd bowed out when they started to get a little too cozy for company and, giggling, informed him they'd be making something to eat. Not that he believed that for a second. He just hoped they'd clean up whatever they got up to, so that he could cook there in the morning. Harry always bounced back from a wild night with alarming elasticity. John, not so much._ _

__The fire alarms should be ringing, but John couldn't hear them. His head and chest hurt, thick and heavy with smoke. He tried to yell for Harry and his voice died in his throat. The sound of the fire had changed, and he knew what came next._ _

__The impact jolted him awake, and he sat up in bed, sucking in huge gulps of fresh, cold, January air. Sweat poured off him; his shirt was soaked through. For a minute or more, John stayed there, frozen, shivering and sweating, the last moments he remembered of the fire replaying in his head. If he closed his eyes, the flames roared up again. Then, all at once, his arms gave out and he fell back to the pillow, his breath shuddering out of him. He scrubbed his hands furiously over his face, his left hand limp and weak. He squeezed it mercilessly into a ball and then extended all his fingers, again and again, until the movement felt almost normal. It never felt entirely normal._ _

__He knew, from being told, what had happened. After the shelving fell, he'd been conscious just long enough to feel a strong tug on his feet. Paul Murray, the porter, had turned up for work at his usual five a.m. to find the building aflame and Harry and Clara standing on the pavement, half naked and sobbing._ _

__"John's in there!" Harry howled. "He's in the kitchen!"_ _

__Later, Paul told John he could hear the sirens on their way but that he was sure, somehow, that John didn't have that long. He'd thrown his rucksack at Harry's bare feet, put his coat over his head, and gone in. The kitchen door was closed, just barely holding the fire back, but Paul opened it. He'd crawled in to find John under the remains of the pot rack, lucky as hell it had only been his shoulder that was broken. The fire had eaten the rack's attachments to the ceiling and the pots had just missed John's head. Paul had grabbed him by both feet and pulled him backwards, out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Two firefighters pushed him aside to get to John while a third helped him up and out of the restaurant._ _

__John remembered the ride in the ambulance, his eyesight hazy, his mouth and nose covered by the oxygen mask. They were cutting his clothes off him, and when one of the paramedics saw he'd come round, she leaned close over his face and said, "John, you're going to be all right."_ _

__In the most basic sense, she was right. He was alive, for instance. The building had been gutted, but Harry's 999 call had at least saved the buildings on either side. The restaurant was destroyed. Their flat was gone. Harry was in rehab and wouldn't return his phone calls. John had had three surgeries on his shoulder: one orthopaedic, to repair the crushed bones, and two cosmetic, to graft his skin back into place. The burns were extensive, from his collarbone to his bicep and part of the way down his back. The physical therapist was doing her best, eighteen months on, to work with both healing burns and bones, but it was slow going._ _

__John's heart wasn’t trying to beat out of his chest anymore, so he sat up again, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He knew they wouldn't hold him just yet, but he leaned over and breathed deeply. The carpet was rough under his feet. It was only a couple of steps across the room to his desk, and just a few more to the ensuite door, but just now the distance felt vast._ _

__"Fuck," John said to his knees._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Ella's office was situated in Marylebone, just off Harley Street, which spoke volumes as to its prestige and worth, but which was also very dangerous when it came to John's self-control. Usually, after a session, sore and exhausted, he could convince himself to get back on the Tube and go straight back to his sad little flat in Bermondsey, but on some days, particularly the ones when the sky was clear, he found himself passing the station entrance, pushing his way through the crowds around Oxford Street, and walking into Soho.

Eighteen months after the fire, Fifth Northumberland was long gone, but the building had been rapidly rebuilt and resold, and now a new restaurant stood in its place. John hardly recognised the facade as he squinted at it, the January air biting at his exposed skin. His shoulder was aching and he held it close to his body, huddling into his coat. He'd come here four times since he started physio, watching the progress on the repairs, but the sight of the new restaurant turned his stomach. It was real, now. They hadn't just been fixing the place up for him and Harry again.

The new place, Sotto Voce, advertised gourmet Italian pizza and pastas, and there was music playing from speakers outside the door to entice people in. The whole front was white, drawing attention to the newness of the place, and there were diners seated with their backs to the window on a bench seat. Inside, John could see the clean, bright counters and the young, athletic-looking wait-staff. He clenched his hand into a fist, feeling his shoulder twinge.

Sotto Voce had all the hallmarks of a brand new success, and it made John's blood boil. He could go over there right now and show them a thing or two about how to run a kitchen, but what use did they have for a middle-aged chef with a tremor in his dominant hand? John couldn't even hold a knife steady. On a good day, he could cut open the package on an M&S ready-meal without endangering his fingertips.

Ella was working on the tremor, but recently she'd been talking about sending him to see a shrink too. She thought it was psychosomatic; a result of the memory of the fire rather than actual, genuine nerve damage. John had bristled at the idea at first, insulted that she thought he was mentally unstable, but the nightmares were coming back and he was starting to rethink things. PTSD was a real, medical condition, Ella said, and could be treated, but she wasn't the one to do it. She could only make his arm stronger.

John scuffed the toe of his shoe against the ground and turned away. He shouldn't be here. He should go home, watch some bad telly in his crap flat, and maybe ring his parents. Possibly eat a chicken korma. Live the high life. 

He took a scenic route through Soho Square on the way to Tottenham Court Road, rather than brave the Oxford Street shoppers again. He was halfway across, going around the pagoda, when he heard his name. He turned, surprised, looking around in confusion, when Mike Stamford, of all people, popped up in front of him.

"John Watson!" Mike said, reaching out and giving John's hand a friendly shake that made John's teeth rattle. "How the hell are you?"

"Er," said John.

 

Mike invited him to the Criterion in Piccadilly. Although he was the head chef for some hipster grunge restaurant in Shoreditch whose primary draw was its nineteen kinds of fried chicken, Mike was a gourmand at heart, and nothing made him happier than a flank steak served in style. John, in his button-down and jeans, just barely cleared the bar in terms of dress code, and they were shown to a table near the back.

"So we got the insurance on the restaurant after the fire," John concluded as they sat down, "but it's all gone to rehab of one sort or another, and severance for the employees, and my temporary place, and there isn't hardly enough left for start-up on a new venture is there?"

Mike nodded sagely, looking at the menu for show. "Tough to start from scratch," he agreed. "Even with your reputation, and the show, and everything? What about your cookbook?"

"I missed too many deadlines," John said, his eyes on the wine list. He just wanted a lager. "They tried to give me a break, when I was in hospital, but there's just been so much else to do. Publisher lost interest."

Mike gave John's arm a long look, as if he could assess the damage through John's shirt. John rubbed his finger and thumb together restlessly, trying to dispel the numbness without drawing Mike's attention.

"Anyway," John said, "how's Marie?"

Talk of his wife, and subsequently his children, distracted Mike sufficiently, and John could relax a little while he listened to the mundane family stuff of someone else. They were interrupted eventually by the waiter, placed their orders, and fell into silence again when they were left alone.

"How long has it been?" Mike asked gently.

"Year and a half," John said vaguely, though he knew the time to the day.

"And you haven't spoken to Harry this whole time?"

"It's mutual," John admitted. "She doesn't pick up when I ring, but then I don't ring. I get an email once in awhile from Clara, carbon-copied to the whole family, letting us know how she's doing, but… I'm not really keeping tabs, honestly."

Harry, John knew, blamed herself for the fire. Privately, he agreed with her. The investigators had found melted liquor bottles at the centre of the blaze and the charred remains of a whole roll of blue paper, part of which had been used, they determined, to mop up a spill. Harry and Clara had been drinking, John knew, and they'd gotten careless. When they'd finished their celebration they'd gone upstairs to bed without checking the burners, distracted by the heat between them.

It was John's own fault for going into the kitchen looking for them instead of obeying his fire safety training, but he had been disoriented with sleep, and the radio and lights had both been left on.

"You miss it, though, don't you?" Mike asked, as their beers were delivered.

"Jesus, of course I do," John said sharply. "It's the only thing I've ever done, Mike."

Mike put up his hands in a placating gesture. "I know, sorry. Eighteen months isn't any time at all."

"I'm still grieving," John said, as if it were a joke, but it wasn't.

By unspoken agreement they changed the subject, and talked about football until the food was delivered, and then about Mike's own restaurant while they ate. Apparently nineteen kinds of chicken was a success with the East End, and things were going well. John tried not to let the jealousy show on his face, but finally Mike said, "You know, you wouldn't have to go it alone."

"Harry'd have my balls if I got a new business partner so soon," John said.

"I don't know, I think she'd understand."

"I don't think you know Harry that well."

Mike shrugged. "Probably not."

"I mean, seriously," John went on, waving his fork in the air, "that fucking sob story at the end _SuperChef_ , with the footage of the place the day after it burned? Everyone's going to have seen that. What a disaster. Who's going to want to open a new restaurant with me?"

Mike's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he chewed his bite of steak. He swallowed, took a sip of his wine, and pursed his lips.

"What?" John asked. "What's that look about?"

 

The new facilities of Le Cordon Bleu were situated on Bloomsbury Square, just around the corner from the British Museum, its white stone facade and glass doors a clean and unassuming front for the frenetic cooking madness John knew lay within. John followed Mike up the stairs and through the gleaming halls, half listening as Mike described the drama caused by the move. They passed classrooms full of pastry chefs in technical lectures, and state of the art kitchens filled with young hopefuls slaving over hot practicals. Sense-memories were rushing back to John of the hours spent in these halls—well, not _these_ halls—learning to cook properly.

Somewhere in this building was a man who had lamented that very morning about not being able to find a business partner for a mad restaurant idea he'd had. Mike hadn't really elaborated, but since John had nothing better to do, and he was just masochistic enough to consider it as a real possibility, he'd agreed to meet him. Harry could go right to hell; John was just going to _talk_ to the guy.

Then Mike was opening the door to a lab-like demonstration kitchen with rotary evaporators on the gleaming stainless steel tables and dozens of sizes of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. There were dehydrators and sous-vide water baths and convection ovens lining the walls, and mirrors over demonstration ranges that made the room seem twice as big. Most of the lights were off.

"Bit of an upgrade, isn't it?" John asked, impressed despite himself.

The room wasn't as empty as he's thought: there, perched on a stool at a table in the middle of the room, was a dark-haired man in a suit jacket. He was bending over a glass dish with a pipette in his hand, dropping green goo precisely into the center, and he didn't acknowledge their presence until they were standing almost directly beside him.

"Mike," the man said, and this must have been the man Mike had promised him, "can you hand me that thermometer?"

The thermometer was lying next to him on the table, within his own reach. John raised an eyebrow at Mike, but Mike just shrugged, his mouth pursed in a strange half-smirk. The man kept his eyes on the pipette's contents, clearly expecting to be obliged, and after a moment of silence John picked up the thermometer and offered it to him.

Instantly the man's attention was on John, sharp grey eyes scanning from John's outstretched hand up his arm to his face, then down at his jacket, jeans, and shoes. John looked back. If this was the guy Mike had thought John needed to meet, John wasn't terribly upset. He was easy on the eyes, that was for sure. John took in the soft black curls that brushed his forehead, the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the pink moue of his mouth. He wore no tie, despite the quality of his suit, or perhaps because of the experiment with the green goo, and his crisp white shirt was undone at the collar. John allowed himself a moment of appreciation for the shadow of his Adam's apple, and then looked up again into his eyes, where the hint of a smile was just visible.  
Then the moment was over, and the thermometer was snatched from John’s hand.

"Portland Street or UCL?" the man asked, checking the temperature of the goo in front of him.

John raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Were you taken to Portland Street's A&E or UCL's?"

John cleared his throat, glancing at Mike for reassurance— and finding none, damn the man. Mike only shrugged and gave John a look that said, 'I told you so,' although he'd done nothing of the sort.

"UCL," he said, and crossed his arms. "Sorry, how—?"

"Do you know anything at all about molecular gastronomy?"

John blinked. "Not much. A bit. Kind of a naughties fad, wasn't it?"

The man's mouth tightened and he looked at John again, displeased. "It's chemistry, and cooking is chemistry."

"I've never tried it," John said.

"Well," the man said, wiping his hands on his expensive-looking trousers, "I suppose that's to be expected. Anyway, potential business partners should know the worst about each other."

"Did Mike tell you about me already?" John demanded. He hadn't seen Mike send any texts between Piccadilly Circus and Holborn.

"No," the man said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, "but it's obvious, isn't it? I make an offhand mention about the difficulty of finding an amenable, intelligent partner in a business like this, and he turns up the same afternoon with an out-of-work ex-television-star chef with dreams of getting back to into the game. I know who you are, and I must say I'm actually rather impressed."

The heat of a blush filled John's face, and he opened his mouth to protest at the snide remark, when the sincerity of the man's growing smile struck him. "Impressed?" he asked.

"Yes, you seem to be recovering quite well, given the extent of your injuries; your hand hardly shakes at all. Is the grip strong enough for you yet, or are you still working on it?"

"I'm still—"

"Excellent. Well, not particularly excellent, but it'll have to do." The man put the pipette down and struck his palms on his thighs. "I've got my eye on a little place off Regent's Park; I think together we can really make something of it. I'll make an appointment with Mrs Hudson for tomorrow at noon, will that suit you?"

"Hang on a minute," John said, holding up both hands and noticing that the left one was indeed very steady. "If you do in fact know who I am, you must be aware of the situation surrounding my desire to _start_ a new restaurant, and how it is a colossally bad idea to go into business with me, given my track record. No, sorry, I shouldn't have come—"

"Don't be ridiculous," the man said, "It's a superb idea. You'll be a bit out of your depth, certainly, most people are, but I think you'll do very nicely. It's ridiculous to extrapolate from the smoking wreck of a single restaurant to the end of your very livelihood, especially since it was primarily your partner's fault that it burned. Alcoholism, wasn't it?" The man stood and snatched up a slotted spoon from the other side of the table. He dipped it into the glass dish, fished out a little pile of blobs and lay them on a plate. He rinsed them with a clear wash from a plastic bottle and scooped them up again with an even smaller spoon. The blobs would have looked like caviar if they hadn't been a brilliant green. He offered the spoon to John.

John narrowed his eyes, still smarting from the (admittedly accurate) jab at his sister, but took the spoon anyway. The blobs were slimy as they passed his lips, but they exploded as soon as they touched his tongue and he stared at the man in shock as the taste of pesto filled his mouth. The man's strange, half-hidden smile returned.

"I'm still working on the consistency," he said, turning away to pluck a huge coat off a hook and hang it over his arm. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've left my emulsifier in the walk-in."

He was almost out the door before he turned suddenly and looked at John again, his piercing storm-cloud eyes making John's breath stutter in his chest. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," he said, "and the address is number Two Hundred and Twenty-One, Baker Street." With an afterthought of a nod to Mike, he concluded, "Afternoon," and vanished.

Mike looked at John with his eyebrows almost at his hairline. John looked back, and then down at the tools Sherlock Holmes had left on the bench top. The solution in the glass dish was growing a little cloudy and the little green pesto caviar blobs had begun to leak. The abandoned pipette was still half-full, and the spoons were sitting in puddles of solution. John had two simultaneous sinking suspicions: first, that this, from the rapid-fire fact-announcing to the mess he'd just left, was the way Sherlock Holmes always operated; and second, that John was already in too deep.

 

That evening, back in his flat, John looked Sherlock Holmes up on the internet. Holmes had his own website, which was primarily a blog of recipes and experiments that John skimmed, a Wikipedia entry (John had one too, and Harry had written most of it) and, for some reason, a dedicated fan site. The resounding consensus online (including on the fan site) was that Holmes was an absolutely unapologetic raging twat. And that he always looked good in pictures, even the candid ones.

Holmes had grown up in Kent, and read Chemistry at Cambridge. He had graduated at the top of his class at Ferrandi in Paris, despite repeated instances of disciplinary action and his refusal to adhere to the suggested course template. He was also suspected of being responsible for the retirement of two separate head chefs who had taught there at the time.

The list of restaurants he had worked at since receiving his culinary degree was in the double digits, thanks to his abrasive personality and crippling need to be right all the time, and a slew of articles John found from various foodie magazines— _Esquire Food & Drink, FOUR_, and _Foodism_ each had more than one article dedicated to the man—tried valiantly to make sense of his erratic but nevertheless continuously upward career. Every Michelin-rated restaurant in Britain, it seemed, wanted to have him on their staff, but no one wanted to keep him longer than a few months.

It was a bit sad, really.

Holmes had even worked under Raymond Blanc for a little while in 2008, which had resulted in a whole YouTube playlist of videos of him making outrageously rude remarks to other chefs, restaurant patrons, and the restaurant floor manager. John found each of them more ridiculous than the last, but every single one appeared to be based on an accurate observation or fair critique about that person, done in the moment, as he'd done to John.

He might be an arsehole, but it looked like he _was_ right all the time.

John bookmarked the articles and the playlist for future reference, and got ready for bed. His left hand was strangely steady. Holmes was probably the worst person to try and employ, but maybe he would be different at the helm. He'd still shout, probably, and John would have to take him down a peg on that front. Shouting never got anything done, it only made people upset, and when chefs were upset the food was inevitably ruined. It was the food that was important to John, not the egos. If Sherlock Holmes was _really_ as bad as the videos showed, even when he was in control instead of chafing under the yoke of someone else's ideas, then John would wash his hands of him.

He would just have to find out, he decided, staring at the ceiling. 221 Baker Street might be an amazing space with the potential of John's lifetime, or it could be a ridiculous idea that he could turn away from without regretting it. Besides, it was better than lurking in Soho like the worst kind of creep, or spending another afternoon at the V&A to pass the time. The staff were starting to recognise him there, and not because he'd been on the telly.

 

Number 221 was a short walk from the Baker Street tube station, and it was a damned strange place to think of sticking a restaurant. Marylebone Road was crammed with traffic, and Regent's Park was always full of pedestrians, but Baker Street itself was mostly corporate offices and residences. A few souvenir shops spilled their wares onto the pavement, and John passed a Tesco and a Costa as he walked up the street. Not exactly the classiest spot for a high end eatery.

He could tell which one was 221 from a distance: its front windows were covered with brown paper and the front door had a piece of plywood screwed in where the glass ought to go. The faded green awning was tattered by wind and neglect, and there was litter swept haphazardly into the gutter: old cups, cigarette butts, package sandwich boxes. John wasn't immediately inspired. He spotted the black, unobtrusive door to the flat above and peered up at the windows, frowning. Did anyone actually live up there in B, or was the whole building empty? Maybe it was just this end of the street that was giving him this impression. It wasn't dodgy, not in _this_ neighborhood; just a bit weary. It looked like it needed a great deal of money poured into it before it would draw any attention. Wonderful.

A black cab pulled up as John approached, and Sherlock Holmes unfolded from the back seat. He was wearing the enormous coat with its collar turned up against the cold, and a blue scarf wrapped around his long neck. He looked as immaculate as he had the day before. John had a flash memory of a Holmes in the videos he’d watched, in the tall, white chef hat and white buttoned coat, verbally abusing a manager, and had to stifle an embarrassed smile. Sherlock Holmes stuck out his leather-gloved hand, and John shook it.

"Mr Holmes," he said, hoping he wasn't giving anything away too early.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock said. His grip was firm and his gloves were pleasantly warm from the inside of the cab. "What do you think?" he asked, gesturing at the building.

John turned to it again and folded his hands behind his back. He shrugged. "It needs a bit of work," he said, trying to be tactful.

"It's perfect," Sherlock scoffed. "You're not looking at it properly. Come on, let me show you inside."

He strode up to the plywood-bandaged door and rapped on it sharply. A moment later, the door was opened by a petite older woman with soft, blonde hair and a delicately lined face. She was wearing a purple silk dress with a high collar and tight cuffs that made John think of his Scottish nan.

"Sherlock!" the woman said, giving him a hug around the middle. The top of her head barely reached the underside of his chin.

Once he had finished hugging her back, Sherlock presented her to John, saying, "This is Mrs Hudson, the owner of the building. I mentioned her yesterday. Mrs Hudson, John Watson."

"Pleasure," John said, shaking her hand.

"John Watson," Mrs Hudson echoed, wrapping her fingers around his and smiling up into his face. "Such a treat to meet you! I watched every episode of _SuperChef_ that you were on, you know."

"Oh," John said, his stomach sinking. "Did you."

"Such a treat," Mrs Hudson said again, and let him go. She ushered them both through the door. "And now you're starting a restaurant with Sherlock! What fun you'll both have, I'm sure of it. Shame about the old one, John, dear. Such a terrible waste, I said to myself.”

John risked a glance at Sherlock, who was beaming around at the dark interior. "Yes, well," he said, "nothing's settled yet."

"Pish," Mrs Hudson said, not unkindly. "Come on, I'll give you the grand tour."

The room was about thirty feet wide and sixty feet deep, and was completely empty, down to the bare hardwood floor. The staircase up to the upper level cut into the front part of the room. The wallpaper was peeling and half the lights in the ceiling didn't come on when Mrs Hudson flipped the switch. Any sunlight that might have warmed the room up was entirely blocked by the paper on the windows. It looked like a crypt.

"This is the dining room, obviously," Mrs Hudson said. "My late husband had terrible taste, so I've torn out all the decor for you. But the bones of the place are strong. Good lines."

"Hm," said John. Despite his best efforts, he was visualising the decor of Fifth Northumberland in this space and coming up short. They'd definitely be starting from scratch here.

"We'll put benches along the wall, there," Sherlock said, "and at least three little two-cover tables in the window. The bar will go under the stairs, all along there, up to that service window in the back."

"Toilets are there," Mrs Hudson put in, pointing to the alcove.

Sherlock vanished for a moment into a niche in the wall and came out again. "Place settings in there, cutlery, glasses, and so on. Service station can be there, by the door to the kitchen."

The service window at the back of the room had a stainless steel lip about the level of John's chest, just the right height for waiters to pick up plates or trays. Through it, John took in the view of the kitchen area, which was about twice as full of equipment as it needed to be, and looked positively chocka when compared to the empty dining room.

Sherlock pushed through the swinging door and raised a smug eyebrow at John through the window. John managed a smile and followed Mrs Hudson in.

The kitchen, though full, was generously sized and spotlessly clean. There were two prep tables in the middle, four sinks, a potwash machine, doors to the walk-in fridge and two freezers, and rows and rows of shelving ready to be filled with pots and pans, fruit and veg, spice and seasoning. The potential of it all made John's heart skip a beat. He'd missed a good mise en place, and now Sherlock was offering him a new one.

"This could be very nice," he said, turning in a circle and looking around the kitchen again. "This could be very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, grinning. His eyes were sparkling. "I think so."

"Just as soon as we get some of this junk out—"

"I started bringing in some of my equipment—"

They stopped and stared at one another.

"Well," said Sherlock sheepishly, "I suppose it does need to be organised a bit."

"Some of this is quite new, isn't it?" John asked. "Is that a centrifuge?"

Sherlock beamed. "Goes up to five thousand RPM," he said proudly, patting it on its lid. "Second-hand from Bart's Hospital."

"Well, it's… I suppose it's to do with the molecular gastronomy, and not… science experiments?"

"Molecular gastronomy _is_ an experiment," Sherlock said with a sigh of consternation, and stalked out of the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue and ushered John out after him. "He's very sensitive about it," she whispered, as Sherlock did another assessing turn in the middle of the dining room and nodded to himself. "I don’t think they took him very seriously at his last kitchen."

"Come upstairs, John," Sherlock boomed from the front door. "We've got so much to discuss."

 

The B apartment on the first floor was indeed occupied, by Sherlock Holmes himself. Sherlock led John up the stairs and took his coat off at the top.

"I'll just make you boys a cup of tea," Mrs Hudson said, going into the flat's kitchen, the state of which was a disgrace compared to the gleaming contents of the one below it. "Just this once, mind."

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa and stretched out from end to end, resting his fingertips against one another beneath his chin. John hung his coat on the back of the chair at the writing table between the windows and sat down, rubbing absently at his shoulder.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," he admitted, after a moment of silence which was undercut by the pleasantly homey sounds of the kettle heating up and Mrs Hudson getting out a couple of mugs.

"And?" Sherlock asked. His eyes were closed. "How many videos did you watch?"

"Five or six," John said.

Sherlock's face creased briefly in a smile, and he let out a huff of breath that might have been a laugh. "Watch the rest," he suggested. "I'm at my best in the one called 'You don't even have a cat,' in my opinion, but I'll let you decide for yourself."

John stared at him. Mrs Hudson set down the tea tray at his elbow.

"A couple of biscuits, too," she said, indicating them. "Sherlock, dear, your kitchen's an absolute wreck, and I don't think I need to remind you—"

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock said, glancing out the window. “Thank you for the tour, Mrs Hudson, that will be all.”

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes at him while he wasn’t looking, but she took the hint and headed for the door. On the way out, she said to John, "You know, there's another bedroom upstairs to let, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," John said, shaking his head. "I'm not—"

"John's not moving in, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock called. "Now kindly leave us alone."

She closed the door with a huff, but didn't slam it, and John listened to her descend the stairs in her little heeled shoes.

He picked up his scalding tea and blew across the top of it. "I haven't even agreed to open a restaurant with you," he said as he put it down again.

Sherlock sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa and planting his feet on the floor. "You will," he said. He propped his elbows on his knees and regarded John with those piercing eyes, as if he were parsing and analysing each one of John's thoughts as John had them. "Yesterday I asked you whether you'd been taken to Portland Street or UCL after the fire."

"Yes, how did you know that, by the way? My injuries were kept out of the reports."

Sherlock's grin widened until he was positively shark-like. "When you handed me the thermometer yesterday, your arm moved stiffly, as if it were sore. I knew who you were, of course; I always keep an eye on the rising stars of the profession, just in case. I knew about the fire, and I noticed the strategic voice-over you provided for the last episode of the show. You're not in the shot because during post-production you were still in hospital; the sound editor didn’t get all of the ambient noise out, and the sound of a heart monitor is very distinctive. Your restaurant was in Soho, and Portland Street and UCL are both within hailing distance for an ambulance."

"And what about my business partner?" John demanded. "How could you know about the drinking?"

"Your sister was on the show with you," Sherlock said. "She got as many close-ups as you did, and, I must say, you stood up to the scrutiny better than she did. Alcohol abuse shows in a person's face: burst blood vessels in the nose, puffiness around the eyes. You, John, you take risks with food, not with your surroundings; you're not reckless. Harry Watson is the kind of person who'd forget a hob was on. She did it on camera once."

John grimaced. There had been one challenge that had almost turned into a disaster because of Harry's carelessness. It hadn't been anything as dramatic as burning down a building, but the scalded milk made a dreadful custard.

"So, John," Sherlock said, leaning in and fixing his eyes on John again, "what'll it be? Are you interested?"

"Place downstairs needs a lot of work."

"I agree."

"Which will take money."

"Not a problem."

"What do you need me for, then?"

"Management," Sherlock said. "I want to be the head chef, and I want you to run the business."

"You chafe like no one I've ever seen under management," John protested. "At least you do in those videos."

"I chafe under the management of _idiots_. You're not an idiot."

"How do you know?"

"I've watched you cook."

"You've watched me cook on telly, and I haven't cooked in over a year."

"I know what I'm looking at when I see it," Sherlock said. "You know how to run a restaurant. I want you to run mine." He started to grin as John's resolve wavered. "You know you want it. _I_ know you want it."

"Harry'll be furious," John said.

"I'm sure she will. I'd expect nothing less, actually. Eighteen months after the demise of your mutual business venture, and already you're hopping into bed with someone else."

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock was smirking at him, practically teasing him, and it wasn't subtle.

"Not into bed, exactly," John said. He knew he was blushing. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Sherlock waved away his concern with one long, pale hand. "Whatever you want to call it," he said. "Well?"

John looked at him, really looked, and he could see the chef that everyone threw fits about, the one that picked fights with chefs he deemed incompetent and made a manager almost punch him. But he also could see the man who was tired of being _that_ chef, the one who wanted to be out of the light of the rogue cameraphone and just allowed to _create._

"Is this molecular gastronomy business going to work?" he asked.

"I'm going to make it work," Sherlock vowed.

 

John promised to give Sherlock his answer in the morning. Sherlock gave him his mobile number, saying, "I prefer to text," and saw him out. John stopped across the street to look at the building again, trying to picture its final state, and saw the curtains on the first floor twitch. Sherlock was watching him. John pretended not to see.

He stopped at Tesco on the way home, building a menu in his mind, and tossed it all on the worktop in the flat to take off his coat. Two carrier bags took up nearly the whole surface, but he was going to make it work. He might not know a thing about molecular gastronomy, but he knew how to make a proper dinner. He'd eaten from the meal deal section of the shop too often lately.

He took the chicken breasts out first and sliced them lengthwise in half. His best knives were gone, but this one was sharp and the cut went smoothly. He put the chicken aside on a plate as his mind wandered. What they’d been able to salvage after the fire hadn’t been much, and now it was all packed up in boxes in a storage unit near his parents' place in Sheffield. He was making do with the bare essentials. His mum kept emailing him about flats that were up for rent in London, but she seemed to think he and Harry were still on speaking terms. Or perhaps she thought if they just moved back in together, they'd reconcile. 

Sherlock's place was nice, John thought, picking oregano leaves off the stem to chop. But it was right over the restaurant, and John wasn't about that anymore. If the front room where they'd spoken looked out onto the street, and the flat's kitchen didn't correspond directly with the kitchen downstairs, then that meant a bedroom, presumably Sherlock's, was at the back over the industrial kitchen below. In the event of a fire, it would be the first room to collapse.

John put the chopped oregano into a medium-sized bowl along with a teaspoon of turmeric, a pinch each of sea salt and black pepper, and two tablespoons of oil. He mixed it with a fork and threw the chicken in, tossed it to coat the chicken, and let it alone to marinate.

He put a pot of water on to boil and began to shred the kale into manageable pieces. Sherlock didn't have the same misgivings about living over a restaurant that John did. That was understandable. John wasn't going to join him in _that_ as well, even if he did take up with Sherlock's mad restaurant idea. Sure, his flat was small and rubbish, and the kitchen could hardly be called a kitchen, and if he wanted to he could take a shower while sitting on the toilet, and the whole place smelled like mould… John had lost the thread of his argument with himself. The water boiled.

John blanched the shredded kale and took it out again, and then poured the hot water over cous-cous waiting in another pot. He covered it with a plate and went to the window. He was lucky to have a window. It looked out onto the brick wall of the adjacent building, but it let in some sunlight on occasion. For the price, in London, he was lucky to have it.

He went back to the worktop to pick the mint leaves to bits, and then started to chop the peppers. His grip on the knife was weaker than before, and it slipped once as he worked, shearing close to his fingertips. John swore under his breath. He put the knife down and squeezed his fist hard, then shook it out. The tremor was back. _Fuck._

He would come back to the peppers. John dug through the remainder of the carrier bag, his fingers catching on the air pockets in the plastic, rustling, until he found the package of hazelnuts. The package burst when he tore it, scattering hazelnuts over the worktop and hob. They bounced and rolled in every direction, escaping his reach even as he scrambled for them.

John left them where they lay and turned away from the kitchenette. He crossed the few steps to the bed and put both hands over his face. He was fucking useless. His hand would never be the same. He'd never be able to cook the way he used to. His career as a chef, as the one actually making the food, was over. Management was the next logical step. Wasn't it? Was it what he wanted? What were his other options? Sit around in this crappy flat and stare at the brick wall? Wait until Harry had quit the booze—for good this time—and carry on with her? He couldn't strike out on his own. Sherlock Holmes was his best bet.

He went back to the hob, gathered up the hazelnuts, and toasted them in a dry pan. He didn't have a mortar and pestle on hand, so he crushed them rough with a spoon in a bowl. Then he got the chicken out of its marinade and seared each piece on both sides, adding the peppers he'd chopped and ignoring the ones he hadn't. He reheated the greens and plated the dish atop a scoop of store-bought hummous.

It was beautiful. A little sloppy around the edges, but he could see where he should have been more careful. His hand was steady as he put the plate on the table.

In his jacket, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. John fished it out to look at it.

_**18:42 Sherlock Holmes:**  
Well? SH_

John sat down at the table. He set the phone down beside his plate. Then he picked it up again and replied, _Fine, I'm in._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had not expected John to agree so quickly to his plan for the restaurant at 221. He thought perhaps he’d need to woo him a little longer, show him a few of his better tricks, maybe take him out to a dinner he hadn’t cooked and convince him that they needed one another. He was almost disappointed that he no longer had an excuse to take John to Angelo’s for some candle-lit convincing. He’d been craving their scallops—but never mind. John was in.

John came back to Baker Street the next afternoon and co-signed the lease, skillfully ignoring Mrs Hudson’s hints about the second bedroom in the flat above. Sherlock knew John had plenty of reasons to be hesitant about living over the restaurant, the least of which was that he barely knew the other current occupant. Not that that had stopped people finding flatmates before. Sherlock didn’t exactly think it was _ridiculous_ , but it was certainly inconvenient that John insisted on staying in Bermondsey. The work would be so much more efficient if they were both on-site all the time.

After the lease was signed, Sherlock took John to the licensing office to get their alcohol permit. They were in and out in under an hour, and Sherlock smirked at the astonishment on John’s face.

“Someone owes me a favour,” he said, and declined to elaborate. It was a long story, anyway, and some bits reflected rather badly on himself, so it was better to keep John mystified. The videos online didn’t always do him justice.

John went home again that night with noticeable spring in his step, filled with optimism and potential, and Sherlock—again, somewhat guiltily—watched him go.

When he had moaned to Mike Stamford that no one would start a restaurant with him, he could never have predicted this turn of events. He’d just been griping, honestly, to one of the only sympathetic listeners he could find. It was a good rant and he’d been glad enough not to waste it on the skull. Mike had nodded and “hmm”ed at all the appropriate places, and then turned up four hours later with an old chum from culinary school.

Sherlock decided it was probably fate, not that he believed in such things. He needed John, and John needed him.

John Watson was a fascinating person. His cooking career had been predictable, almost formulaic: in culinary school at twenty, a _grand diplôme_ by twenty-two, apprenticing at restaurants in the West End soon after. John had worked his way from one tier to the next, rising to Head Chef at Alessandro's by thirty. Opening his own restaurant was the most obvious successive choice, but with his sister? Sherlock couldn’t imagine the reasoning. She must have been the one that entered them for consideration for _SuperChef._ John didn’t seem the type to initiate something so ridiculous, but he would have gone along with it for a laugh.

Sherlock had watched the entire season over again, to get a better sense of John.

No, John took his work very seriously, and Sherlock could tell he was going to give everything he had to make the restaurant 221 a success. He was the right pick.

 

Three days later, Sherlock was on the verge of regretting his convictions. They had started to rearrange the kitchen equipment, and John absolutely refused to let him have his rotary evaporator, freeze dryer, and dehydrator in the middle of the kitchen where they belonged.

"Sherlock," he said, "this is going to be a working kitchen, not your personal laboratory. I don't care what you want to do with the food, what you want to make, or how you want to make it, but it needs to _get made._ "

Sherlock glared at him, hands on hips. They were stripped down to their shirts, sweating with the effort of moving the appliances around and arguing at the same time.

“The whole point of this restaurant is the art of creating the food,” Sherlock protested. “I can’t work in corners, John!”

“You can’t get a team in here for dinner service if your toys are in the middle of the floor.”

“My _toys_ ,” Sherlock scoffed, but John stood firm.

“The wait staff need a straight shot from the door to the potwash,” he said, pointing along the route they had cleared. “The line chefs need to be able to talk to the waiters when the orders are up.” This with a jab of two fingers at the window that opened onto the dining room. “All of this,” John went on, and now the sweep of his arm took in all of Sherlock’s favorite tools, “is for the mise en place. You will not be rotating or evaporating anything while this place is full of customers, and you know it, so they go along the wall.”

Sherlock scowled, but he knew when he was beaten.

When they had finished, he privately admitted that John was right. He had an eye for flow and efficiency that Sherlock didn’t possess. It was why he’d picked John, he reminded himself, and not just because he was the one who had turned up in the lab.

“We really ought to get a contractor in here,” John said, wiping his face with the crook of his elbow. His shirt sleeves were only rolled halfway up his arms. “Get this setup checked out, see if we need to route any of the electricity or gas lines.”

“Contractors are idiots,” Sherlock said. “Between us, you and I have enough experience to make it work.”

John snorted. “I’m… not sure that’s true,” he said, and went out into the dining room to make some phone calls. Sherlock watched him from the kitchen, eyes fixed on the way his shoulder muscles moved under his shirt as he paced back and forth. He hadn’t demonstrated any weakness on his left side as they’d rearranged the appliances, but now he was holding his phone in his non-dominant right hand. He was more recovered than he knew. The circumstances of the injury had certainly been traumatic, but surely by now he should be more or less fully recovered. For a moment, Sherlock wished he could see the shoulder bare, get a look at the scarring and see if he could tell what kinds of surgeries had been done. Then, as John hung up and turned around to face him with a smile, he realized he’d been staring. He looked away, heat flaring in his face.

“We can get someone in in two days,” John said, coming back through the swinging door.

“Good,” Sherlock said, “Fine.”

 

The next night, John found himself sitting upstairs in Sherlock’s flat, looking at possible dining room furniture on Sherlock's laptop. The wine Sherlock had dug out of his cupboard was spicy on John's tongue, warming him from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. It was after six, and as the wine went to his head John said, "Show me some of what you've done."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in query, scrolling down a page full of chairs.

"This molecular gastronomy business," John said. "That thing with the pesto. That's going to be the main draw of our restaurant, isn't it?"

"Our restaurant," Sherlock repeated with a smile. "That _thing_ with the pesto is called spherification. It's very simple, really, but it works better with some ingredients than with others. Things that are already liquid, for example. The pesto—" He wobbled his hand back and forth. "It needs work."

"Show me what else you can do."

Sherlock got up and waved John into the apartment kitchen, which now looked even less like the kitchen downstairs and more like the lab Sherlock wanted to build. There were beakers and pipettes and flasks everywhere, and a microscope was sitting in the middle of the table. Sherlock pushed the mess aside and put a cutting board down in its place. He opened the fridge and rummaged around, coming up with a surprising array of fresh vegetables, considering how often Mrs Hudson scolded him about the sorry state of his pantry: onions, carrots, celery, peppers, garlic. Six tomatoes from a bowl on the sideboard joined the pile on the table, and Sherlock handed John a knife.

"Chop those for me," he said, indicating the pile of food. John picked up the knife, tested its edge with his thumbnail, and began to chop. It felt good in his hand—strong, weighted correctly, and sharp as hell—and he didn't let the memory of the chicken dish make him unsteady. The motion was familiar. He could do this, with Sherlock as his witness.

Sherlock had turned away to put a pan on the stove and was pouring olive oil into it generously. He also filled a pot with water and stock cubes and added a teaspoon of white powder from a glass jar. It had a label, but John couldn't read it. Sherlock stirred the water to dissolve it and said, "Tomato soup, if you're amenable."

John shrugged at him, smiling, and Sherlock smiled back. It had been like this with Harry, once upon a time; just the two of them in their shared apartment after university, cooking together, comparing notes, making things up. Sure, he was following Sherlock's lead, but Sherlock trusted him to do it right, the way he expected, and that was comforting in a forgotten way. At Fifth Northumberland, he'd had to justify every decision, oversee every dish, supervise every move made by every chef in the place. That was again going to be his fate, but for now, with Sherlock humming to himself as he worked and the heat of the kitchen warming his blood, it was all right.

Sherlock scooped the vegetables away as soon as John was finished with them, and added them to the sizzling olive oil in the pan.

"What did you add to the pot?" John asked, wiping his hands on a towel Sherlock offered him.

"Agar," Sherlock said, turning up the heat on the pan and giving it a stir with a spoon.

"Like in petri dishes?"

"Exactly. Food grade." He shifted his attention to the pot and turned the burner on beneath it.

Thinking of the videos of Sherlock going off on some sous chef who dared to ask Sherlock to clarify something, John asked, "Do you hate having to explain all this?"

"Not to you," Sherlock said. He reached away and found the pot lid, sliding it into place.

"But I should know this stuff," John protested. "The chemistry of it, food chemistry."

"You do know food chemistry," Sherlock said. He slung his own towel over his shoulder, and suddenly he looked like the chef John had seen on YouTube. "But I'm not doing food chemistry, I'm doing molecular chemistry with food."

"Ah."

"The agar works like gelatine," Sherlock said, "but more quickly, and it's less horrible. You'll like this, I know you will."

When the vegetables were soft, Sherlock tipped the pan into the pot and added the tomatoes with their stalks still on. He brought it to a boil and then turned it down to simmer, and said to John, "More wine? Bit of chair shopping?"

They had yet to agree on a style of decor, and for ten minutes argued comfortably about it over Sherlock's laptop.

"That's bloody pretentious, Sherlock," John said, to one suggestion of velvet and mahogany. "This might be a posh restaurant, but we're not _absolute_ wankers."

Sherlock snorted with laughter, an unexpected sound, and got up abruptly from the computer. "Soup's almost done," he said, and went back into the kitchen. John trailed after him and watched as he dug around in a low drawer, came up with a hand blender, and liquified the steaming soup. Then he got out a plastic syringe and a narrow rubber tube. He filled the syringe with soup and injected it slowly, carefully, into the tube. This he stuck in a bowl of ice water waiting in the sink.

"Find a plate and wash it," he said, so John obliged him.

Sherlock held one end of the cooled rubber tube over the plate. He pushed air into the other end with a fresh syringe, and the tomato soup came out in a sinuous wiggle, folding over itself on the plate like a soft noodle. He offered it to John wordlessly.

John picked it up between forefinger and thumb, smelled it, and then sucked it into his mouth. It dissolved on his tongue, the tomato soup sensation and flavour striking him all at once.

"That," he said, when he'd swallowed, "was amazing."

Sherlock, who had been watching him attentively, smiled. "You think so?"

"Really quite extraordinary," John said, eyeing the pot of soup and wondering if they could eat it all in noodle form. "Surely you've been told that before."

"Well," Sherlock said, "yes." Nevertheless, John's praise seemed to light him up. "Do you want to make one?"

"Oh, god yes," John said, taking the proffered syringe.

They plated the soup in artful lines over bruschetta and around pieces of fresh basil from Sherlock's window box, and ate it with forks in the sitting room.

"This is incredible," John said, coiling a soup noodle up on a little square of crispy bread. "I get why it was a fad, though." He bit down and met Sherlock's scandalised look. "It's very flashy and everything, and obviously you're good at it, but to _build_ a restaurant on this is going to take a hell of a lot of work. What's your objective, exactly?"

Sherlock put his plate aside and hopped up in his armchair so that his heels were on the seat and his arse was halfway up the back. He propped his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers beneath his chin in what John was starting to call his _thinking pose_. "I want to serve meals that amaze people," he said. "I want them to know how clever we are."

"How clever _you_ are."

"How clever _I_ am, then. I want them to sit down and be served and not worry about what they want to eat."

"Because you know best?"

Sherlock didn't smile at the joke. "I do know best."

"So, what, you want to serve a chef's table all the time? _Prix fixe_ every night?"

"Something like that."

"It's not going to work," John said. "I'm sorry, but it's not. We'll alienate half the dining population of London. You have to consider vegetarians and food allergies—"

Sherlock snorted derisively.

"And gluten intolerances," John went on, "and people who want to make substitutions."

"People won't make _substitutions_ ," Sherlock said, as if it were a dirty word.

"Sherlock! They will. They absolutely will do that."

"They won't!" Sherlock cried, throwing up his hands. "They'll eat what I tell them to, because what I want to give them is not a meal but an _experience._ I don't want people to come for _dinner_ , I want them to come to be entertained, and impressed, and to be told how to enjoy what's in front of them." He was flushed with emotion now, the colour rising in his face and his eyes blazing. "I'm not interested in who wants fish and who wants chicken and who can't eat celeriac; I'm interested in tricking them into thinking they’re about to eat eggs when really they're putting mango into their mouths."

"Can you do that?" John asked, distracted, which disrupted Sherlock's tirade so completely that he stopped dead and glared. "That's brilliant."

"Of course I can do that," Sherlock scoffed, but he lowered his hands and almost smiled.

John was tipsy. The tomato soup had taken the edge off the wine a bit, but the alcohol had already entered his bloodstream. In the ambient, warm light from the flat's dispersed floor lamps, Sherlock was glowing, the halo of his curly hair disarranged around his head where he'd run his long hands through it. His cheeks were pink with wine and enthusiasm for his craft, and his lips were shining where he'd been licking them. The collar of his shirt was undone, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and John's heart kicked in his chest. He looked away.

"Come on," Sherlock said, apparently not noticing John's lapse of good judgement. "I'll show you."

John did the washing up while Sherlock cleared the table of extraneous equipment and laid out a series of unfamiliar powders and additives.

“You look like you’re about to some magic trick,” he said.

"It's not magic," Sherlock protested, "it's science, John; please don't disparage it, this is serious. All it takes is practice and research, but hardly anyone wants to put in the effort."

Sherlock showed him the spherification technique, which was even better than the liquid noodle thing, and John tasted beads of olive oil, soy sauce, milk, and wine; all the liquids Sherlock could find in the kitchen. Then Sherlock helped him make chocolate sauce ravioli, and John's exclamation of amazement when they cut them open on a plate made him chuckle.

"There's so much to this," Sherlock said, dipping his fingers into the chocolate sauce and licking it off with relish. "I haven't even shown you gellification, or making foam, or centrifuging yet." He sighed, looking around the little kitchen in dismay. "I can't do it here, there isn't space. We'll have to go downstairs."

"Sherlock, wait," John said, catching sight of the time. "I can't, tonight. I'll have to go in a minute if I'm going to catch the last train."

Sherlock scowled. "Don't bother," he said. "Stay in the room upstairs. You've got to come back in the morning anyway."

"I'm not moving in," John said.

"I didn't offer you a lease," Sherlock said.

John started to shake his head, thinking of his little flat and his own bed, but the prospect of staying over was more than a little appealing, despite his concerns. The kitchen below wasn't even _finished._ Not having to leave the cozy domestic scene for the late-January air was another perk. Sherlock was right: it would save him the trip back.

"It's furnished," Sherlock said casually, starting to put away some of the jars. "Mrs Hudson keeps a few things up there; I don't know."

John caved. The last trains from Baker Street were probably pulling away from their various platforms already, and he was knackered.

"Fine," he said, "but I'm not watching you gellify anything just now."

Sherlock didn't look at him, but John saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile.

He went upstairs. There were sheets on the bed, and a nice, heavy duvet that smelled of lavender washing powder. The room wasn't as big as Sherlock's room on the first floor, but it was nearly the same size as John’s whole flat, with a generous closet and a view of Baker Street. There was an IKEA lamp on the nightstand and an empty dresser in the corner opposite a bookshelf and standing mirror. It also had its own full bathroom. John found a wrapped toothbrush in the cabinet over the sink and an unopened tube of toothpaste. A bar of soap, too, was still in its box.

John brushed his teeth and washed his face, and left his folded jumper and trousers on the nightstand. The sheets were cool when he climbed between them but they warmed up quickly. John tried to listen to the sounds of Sherlock moving around downstairs, but the flat was quiet now, and soon he was entirely asleep.

 

In the morning, there was a fresh towel on the toilet seat and a clean T-shirt on top of that. John picked it up, skeptical that any single piece of Sherlock's clothing would in any way fit him. But it was a men's medium and, judging by the state of the tag and the underarms, had never been worn.

John put it on after his shower. It fit perfectly.

Fully dressed, he ventured down the stairs and found Sherlock in the flat kitchen making breakfast. He was wearing a long, silk dressing gown that swirled around his calves as he slid an omelet onto a plate.

"Morning," John said. "Thanks for the shirt."

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said, sticking a fork on the plate and handing it to John. "I don't know why I had it." He didn't look like he'd changed out of his shirt and trousers from the night before. They also weren't wrinkled, and John realised he might not have slept at all. However, he was barefoot, and for a moment John was distracted by the sight of his long, pale toes and the dusting of dark hair on the top of his feet.

"I'll—" he said, bringing himself 'round again, "I'll wash it and give it back, if you like."

Sherlock shook his head, turning back to the stove. He broke three eggs into the pan, one-handed, and assaulted them with the whisk. "No need."

John sat down at the table with the omelet. There was a mug of tea sitting there, steaming, with a pint of milk and a bag of sugar beside it. "Was that you playing, last night?"

"Did I wake you?" Sherlock turned to see his answer.

"No, not at all," John said. That had been the fire dream, the one where he didn't get out of his bedroom in time, and he woke when the room collapsed. The violin had started shortly after he sat up, gasping, around four in the morning, and had done as much or better than the stupid meditation techniques he'd looked up on the internet to restore his breathing to normal. His shoulder still felt stiff. "I don't know you played."

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock said. He scraped a pile of vegetables into the pan with the eggs and folded the eggs neatly over onto themselves.

"Right," John said, and dug in.

At nine, when the contractor arrived with the plumber, carpenter, and electrician in tow, Sherlock was once more immaculate. He had showered while John sat at the laptop—looking at chairs and trying not to think about his new business partner in the shower—and emerged smelling like a whole cupboard of product. Once he was dressed, the effect had mellowed out to a pleasant aura of cleanliness and masculinity. The lines of his suit were pin-straight, and John felt rather more than unkempt in his jeans. The contractor hadn't noticed. 

Sherlock grudgingly showed the crew into the restaurant kitchen to perform the final—and, as John reminded him, legally necessary—installation work, while John laid out the plastic drop cloth in the dining room in preparation of the repaint. Mrs Hudson had been glad to see the wallpaper go, and even happier to help patch once it had been torn away, and now it was John's duty to paint the whole room white so that they could pick a final colour. Sherlock was pulling for an aubergine that John knew would make the room as crypt-like as before, but they hadn't come to blows over it yet. Personally, he was hoping for a shade of red.

He'd just poured the primer paint into the tray when Harry arrived.

The banging on the front door should have warned him something dramatic was on the way: the urgency of it, as well as the sense of security and confidence he'd developed over the last week. Breakfast had been so bloody comfortable, so casual, that there was no way it could have lasted. John, unthinking, went to open the door to see who the hell was pounding on the plywood like that, and Harry exploded past him into the empty dining room.

"John _Hamish_ Watson!" She howled, a veritable gale force of olive-green boiled-wool peacoat and smart blonde bob. "So it _is_ true! Just what the bloody fucking hell do you think you're doing here, eh? Picked up and moved on, have you?"

"Harry," John said, still reeling.

"Congratulations, arsehole," Harry shouted, "well spotted!"

"Oi!" John yelled back, his heart rate already rocketing. "Name calling's really not necessary!"

Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway with the contractor right behind him, drawn by the commotion. John would have ignored them and let Harry take out her anger on him alone, but she wheeled around and caught Sherlock in her sights.

"So this is him," she sneered. "Bloody brilliant Sherlock Holmes, sweeping in with an offer of a new fucking restaurant just when things are seeming a bit dull. Do you know what he's like, John?"

"Can we talk about this privately, Harry?" John asked, caught between furious and mortified.

"Oh, no," Sherlock said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He pushed the contractor back into the kitchen. "I think you'd better talk about it here."

John pointed a finger in his direction. "Not helpful," he said.

Harry's eyes had lit up. "Oh, no, John, if he wants to hear what I've got to say, I think that's just bloody fine. Anyway, you can stick around and hear what I've got to say to _him._ You're business partners now; isn't that what partners _do_?"

"Have you been drinking?" John demanded, taking a step closer to her. He couldn't smell anything, but he couldn't ignore the thought as it came.

"Fuck off," she hissed.

"Did you come here just to verbally abuse me," John asked, "or did you actually need something?" He wasn't going to give her the row that she wanted. If she had something to say to him, fine; if not, he was going to call her a cab and show her out. He wondered if Clara knew where she was, or if that had anything to do with anything. 

Harry deflated slightly, but her face was still blotchy red with anger. She'd worked herself up into a good state on the way here. "You've crossed a line, John," she said.

"How?" John said, barely remembering to keep his voice in check. "By throwing in with someone who isn't you? By refusing to give up on my training? Harry, Fifth Northumberland burned down a _year and a half ago_ , and I'm not sure if you're aware, exactly, given the state of things, but I'm not really able to wait around any longer. I haven't worked in eighteen months, and I'm broke, and I'm bored, and if I'm not careful I could be out on the streets soon, or _worse_!"

"Oh, don't be so fucking dramatic," Harry scoffed.

"Me? I'm being dramatic?"

"How long's it been since your last drink, exactly?" Sherlock asked from the doorway. "Four hours? Five? Your hands are shaking worse than John's, and even from here I can see that you're sweating. John thinks you're in recovery, but you're really not trying as hard as you say you are."

"Sherlock," John snapped, his stomach sinking. Harry's hands were indeed trembling, despite how tightly she clutched the lapels of her coat. "Go back into the kitchen. Right now."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in displeasure, but he retreated and the door closed behind him. The privacy was an illusion, though: the serving window between kitchen and dining room was still a yawning hole in the wall.

John turned back to Harry, whose eyes were blazing with fury once more. "Harry, seriously," he said, "what are you doing here? Where's Clara?"

"She's at work, where the hell do you think she is?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm bloody asking! Is Sherlock right? Have you had a drink today?"

She scowled. "That's none of your business."

John tossed the paint roller aside and stepped close to Harry. She jerked back in surprise, but he took her face gently in his hands and looked into her eyes. "Harry, it is my business. You are literally going to kill yourself if you keep this up."

"Why do you care about that," Harry demanded, pulling away, "of all the damn things to care about?"

John gritted his teeth against a reply.

"You can't do this to me," she said, spreading her arms and turning in a circle, indicating the empty dining room. "You and me, we're supposed to be a team."

"We _are_ a team."

"We _were_ a team."

"Harry, don't cry," John said, all the fight gone out of him. She looked up at the ceiling and pinched her lips together in an effort not to do exactly that. She was thinner than she ought to have been, her cheeks hollowed and the purple shadows under her eyes had deepened. Her lips were painted red, but the lipstick had smudged at the corners of her mouth, and her mascara was sloppily done. John remembered her done up for the cameras, how polished and foreign she'd looked, made-up beyond belief so that her natural beauty would show under the lights on the kitchen stage. He, too, had been given a layer of paint, but it had never changed him as much as it changed her. Harry had made friends with her make-up girl and convinced her to teach her a few tricks, but none of them seemed to be doing her any good now.

"How's the arm?" Harry asked, recovering.

John stooped to pick up the paint roller again. "Bloody magnificent," he said. "I'm calling Clara."

Harry grabbed his empty hand, his right hand. "Don't," she begged. "She shouldn't have to come get me."

"What do you want, Harry? Why'd you come here?"

"I wanted to see the place."

"Bullshit," John said, pulling away.

"I'm serious!"

"How'd you know where it was?"

She snorted, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand and smearing her make-up further. "I'm not a fucking idiot," she said, glaring at him. "We might not chat every week, but we've got plenty of friends who keep tabs on you. Everyone's fascinated, did you know that? No one can quite figure out why you took up with Sherlock Holmes." She gasped suddenly. "Are you fucking him?!"

John bit the inside of his cheek. He shook his head. "No," he said. "We're opening a restaurant. I thought that was obvious."

Harry's mouth pursed. "Jesus, John, do you not see how weird that is? You don't even know him."

" _You_ don't know him," John said.

"He's mental."

"He's not mental, he's— I don't know what he is, but he's really quite decent, and it's none of your business, actually, anymore."

"Oh my God," Harry said. "You _are_ fucking him."

"Harry!" John flailed, fully aware that they could be heard in the kitchen. "We're done here. Thanks for stopping by. When we're ready to open, I'll make sure you get an invitation."

"Fuck you," she said, but she let herself be steered by the elbow for the door. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"I think I can. I'm doing it now."

"Sherlock Holmes is a disaster, John. You're going to regret this."

"I'm going to get to cook again," John said. The air outside was bloody freezing, and he wasn't wearing his coat. "I can't regret that for a second."

She was going to cry again.

"I'll call you tonight," he said. "When you're sober."

"I _am_ sober," Harry hissed, "and it's fucking terrible."

"Do you have a meeting you need to go to?"

She didn't answer. She turned away from him and raised her arm at a passing cab. It veered across the street to collect her, and she got in without looking back. As it pulled away, she gave John a two-fingered salute through the window for as long as he could see her.

Sherlock was waiting for him when he got back inside, leaning against the sill of the service window. " _Well,_ " he said.

"Fuck right off," John replied, walking up to him and poking a finger in his face. "What you said was totally inappropriate."

Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic, and John felt the anger bubbling up again under his skin. "It was just an observation."

"It doesn't matter what it was," John said, "it was rude and unnecessary, and you don't get to talk to my sister that way."

"Oh, I see, it's all right if it's some stranger in a video on the internet, but if it's your _sister_ I'm to refrain, is that it?"

"You could have stayed in the bloody kitchen," John snapped.

"When a shouting stranger comes into my restaurant, I'm not going to _ignore_ them, John, especially if they come with the express purpose of shouting at _you_."

John scrubbed both hands through his hair in frustration. "Damn it, Sherlock," he said, but the fight had gone out of him. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands, and took a couple of deep breaths. His shoulder ached. 

Sherlock was regarding him seriously when he lowered his hands. They stared at one another for a moment. Behind Sherlock, the contractor and his boys were working away, talking in undertones and providing a little background noise that eased the tension a bit.

"What did she want?" Sherlock asked finally.

"I don't know," John said honestly. "We've barely spoken since the— since the fire. She checked herself into a place in Kent and was there for six months. They recommended she stay the rest of the year and she refused. She moved back in with Clara, her— partner, I guess— and Clara's been keeping the family up to date but…"

Sherlock cleared his throat, pushed off the sill, and said, "Tea?"

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Cheers," he said.

Upstairs in the flat, John collapsed in one of the armchairs while Sherlock turned the kettle on and rummaged around in the cupboards. Harry was right: they were supposed to be a team. He should have told her. He had _meant_ to, but he'd only met Sherlock Holmes a week ago. Contracts or no, he hadn't quite considered himself committed. Possibly he wouldn't have admitted it to himself, or to anyone else, until they were in the middle of their first dinner service. He should have been the one to tell Harry, anyway. Who had told her? Mike? It didn't seem like a Mike Stamford thing to do. He'd rather sit on the intelligence until their opening night and then say, quietly, to a reviewer, "I introduced them."

Sherlock put a mug down in front of him and sat down in the other chair. John hauled himself upright and picked up the mug. Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, blowing across the top of his own cup.

"I think we should open in time for restaurant week," he said.

"Fine," John said. The tea was just the way he liked it: dash of milk, no sugar. "When is that?"

"First week of April."

John almost choked. He definitely burned himself. "That's in two months," he spluttered.

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "Do you doubt our ability to be prepared by then?"

"A bit, yeah," John admitted. "The kitchen isn't finished, we haven't even _started_ the dining room, and we haven't got any staff. We need cooks, Sherlock, you realise, that, right?"

Sherlock scoffed, waving away John's concerns like the steam over his tea. "Wrong," he said. "The kitchen is _nearly_ finished, and the decor will be simple. You're right about the aubergine being too dark; I think a light blue will suit very nicely."

"Blue suppresses the appetite," John countered. "Red will make people eat more."

"I don't want them to eat _more_ , John," Sherlock said, scandalised. "I want them to enjoy the food I have decided to serve them, and not to consider such vulgar things. They'll leave pleased and well-fed, regardless of what we put in front of them."

John laughed, shaking his head. "You really are devious," he said. 

"I'm taking advantage of psychology and chemistry," Sherlock said haughtily. "Some would call that inspired."

"Genius, even," John said. "It's not going to work, and it's _not_ the way to run a profitable business."

"As for the staff," Sherlock said, ignoring him, "I don't think we'll have to look very far."

"Are there any cooks left in this city who will work with you?" John teased.

"Yes," Sherlock said. It had evidently touched a nerve, and John regretted it at once.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Fine," John said eventually. "Restaurant week, then."

"Soft open two weeks before."

"Jesus. All right." John's tea was cool enough to drink now, so he did. Sherlock sipped at his own mug contemplatively, watching John, until John lowered his cup.

"You don't have to tell me about your sister," Sherlock said.

"Ta very much," John said. His hand was steady when he put down the mug down on the table.


	4. Chapter 4

The first applications for cooks at 221 came in within half an hour of John posting the job listing online. He hadn't attached his or Sherlock's name to the description, but he'd hinted at high pressure situations, a need for flexibility, and the possibility for some renown. Some of the applicants had figured out who was behind the posting anyway; it seemed people had been paying attention to where Sherlock Holmes was going next.

When John arrived at the restaurant that morning, a little bedraggled from his Tube journey, Sherlock took the list out of his hands, nixed a few right away, and said, "You really should just stay here."

"I'm not—" John started, with a sigh of annoyance that was more at his last hour than at Sherlock. "No."

"It would save us both a lot of time. I wouldn't be forced to make decisions without you when you're running late."

"What have you done, now?" John asked, distracted.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, a little too quickly. "The chairs arrived but they were wrong."

"They were _wrong_?"

"They were ugly in person."

"They were ugly on the website," John said, taking the list back. "Whatever. As long as we get a refund, we can buy new ones. Why have you crossed these names out? Some of their CVs are really good."

"He won't work with me," Sherlock said, going down the list. "She's an idiot, this one's not a real chef, and that one's a stalker. I've seen their name on a few forums, raving about you."

John stared. "Bloody hell. About me?"

"Well, you can't be expected to know, if you never look at your own fan sites," Sherlock said. "Anyway, the rest are fine. We'll interview them tomorrow."

"We should probably give people a few more days to reply to the listing," John said.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. "No, we'll start tomorrow," he said, and went back into the kitchen.

"Christ," John muttered.

"Think about what you want to do for the _stage_!” Sherlock called over his shoulder. "You were on the telly, you can come up with something!"

John interviewed three pastry chefs before he found one that he remotely liked, but she wasn't really what he was looking for. Molly Hooper had a Confectionary Diploma in Chocolate, Sugar, and Pastillage, and she wore a truly horrible cat sweater to the interview. 

"I always wanted to do cakes," she said, nervously pushing the hair that escaped her ponytail behind her ear. "So I dropped out of Uni after my second year, studying English—" she laughed, as if she'd been conditioned to do it, and covered her mouth to stop herself. "—and took up cooking school."

"And what do you do now?" John asked, scanning her professional references.

"Cupcakes," Molly said, her forced smile easing into something more genuine. "I like them because they're smaller, so the decorating's more intricate. I'm _really_ good at intricate."

"How much experience do you have with restaurant kitchens?" Cupcake bakeries, despite their popularity, were nothing like the high-intensity atmosphere John was anticipating.

She flushed and tucked her hands underneath her thighs. "Er, well, the bakery's quite busy," she said, "and I'm used to getting yelled at. I mean— No—" She shook her head sharply, wincing. "I mean, high pressure situations don't intimidate me. Well, they do, a bit, but I'm good at following directions and I almost never make mistakes."

"Why do you want to work here?"

Molly's face brightened again. "Well," she said, leaning in a bit, as if they were sharing a secret. "It's Sherlock Holmes, innit? He's amazing. I'm sure he's got twenty incredible ideas for what he wants to do with the desserts, and they're all completely mad. I want to help make them real, whatever they are, no matter how ridiculous."

When John had shown her to the restaurant door, telling her they'd give her a call, Sherlock stuck his head into the dining room and said, "I want her."

John snorted. "Sherlock, she's not qualified."

"Yes, she is," Sherlock said. "She put herself through culinary school, despite her family's disapproval, and her portfolio is impeccable. She lives alone, so no one to complain about long hours except her cat, and she didn't appear to notice that her sweater was the least appropriate thing to wear. That, or she doesn't care, in which case I _definitely_ want her."

"She's never worked in a restaurant kitchen before. She will literally collapse under the strain."

Sherlock grinned. "No, she'll be fine. I'll make her cry twice, possibly three times, but not more than that."

"You can't guess something like that," John said.

"I never guess."

The sous chefs were more difficult. John was feeling picky, and his candidates weren't measuring up to what he was hoping for. Finally, he interviewed two in a row that he liked: Andy Dimmock and Toni Gregson were both extremely competent and professional, well-qualified, and though they paled a bit at the information that they'd be working under Sherlock Holmes, they each pulled themselves together and assured John that it wouldn't be a problem. Dimmock had worked for Gordon Ramsay and Gregson for Simpson's in the Strand, so John believed them. He certainly believed that they would stand up to Sherlock's wrath better than Molly would, regardless of what Sherlock claimed to know about her.

He had just seen Toni Gregson out, thanking her for her time and promising to call her about the _stage_ , when Sherlock got out of a cab. He was followed by a tall, dashing, friendly-looking man in his early forties, his hair already gone mostly grey.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John said as he walked up, "where the hell have you been?"

"I told you I'd be back," Sherlock said, defensive.

"You sent me a text _yesterday afternoon_ that said, 'back soon' and absolutely no other information."

The stranger muttered, "Sounds like him."

Sherlock sighed as if he had been greatly put-upon and said, "I was getting our front-of-house manager."

"He was seducing me away from my company," the stranger said, offering John his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"John Watson."

"Pleasure."

"We worked together in Paris," Sherlock explained. "He's working for us now."

"I haven't agreed, yet," Greg said.

"Sounds like the conversation he had with me," John said. "Where do you work now?"

"I'm the Operations Manager at a catering company called Starlight Events, based in Wimbledon."

"Rubbish place," Sherlock put in. "Beneath you. Come on, Lestrade, I'll show you around."

John followed as Sherlock gave Greg a tour, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. It was his business too, he reasoned. Sherlock was gesticulating with enthusiasm, explaining how they were going to lay the place out.

"And you can get some of your floor managers to come with you, can't you?"

Greg made a noise, a drawn-out note of skepticism. "I don't know about that, Sherlock. I can't break my contract _and_ steal a handful of managers.”

"We can call them temps,” John offered, "until they make their own decision to stay."

"John!" Sherlock cried. "That's brilliant!"

Greg still hesitated. "I'm just not sure… Sherlock, honestly, I don't know that they'll _want_ to."

Sherlock scowled, fiddling with the pen in his hand.

"I can ask," Greg conceded.

"Thank you," John said. "But will _you_ come?"

"He wouldn't have come all this way if he meant to reject me," Sherlock said, recovered. "You're sick of catering, Greg."

"I'm not!"

"It's _obvious_. Those unpredictable hours are running you ragged. You barely see your wife, who, by the way, isn't taking it as hard as you thought— or she's taking it _hard_ —"

"Sherlock," John warned.

Greg's mouth had gone tight. "We'd both like a more regular schedule," he admitted. "Sherlock's said you don't have waitstaff yet?"

"We don't," John agreed. "We're aiming to be open around the first of April— _not_ as a joke, mind—and we haven't finalised the menu, so I haven't really had the chance. I mean, we've only been at it a few weeks."

Greg considered, weighing the pros and cons in his head, and said, "All right, well, I could probably suggest a few of those, too. Might be Agency, again, as you're trying to get off the ground quick. You can usually get the ones you like to stay on for good. If Sherlock doesn't send them running first."

Sherlock glared daggers, but Greg sent them right back.

"Right," John said. "I can tell that this is going to be a solid and productive working relationship." 

The bar manager that John hired was called Sarah. She was tall and blonde and slung bottles like she'd been born to do it, and had worked in a pharmaceutical lab before she'd quit to become a bartender. She'd even experimented with some of the molecular gastronomy techniques Sherlock had mentioned. When John started to explain their objectives, she'd jumped right in with suggestions about jellification and custards and faux fruits, and he knew she was the one. John talked with her so long that Sherlock actually left the kitchen to come see what was holding him up, and when he met Sarah his face hardened into impassivity. John felt suddenly as though he had to apologise for Sherlock's coldness.

When she was gone, he went into the kitchen and found Sherlock mashing peas with unnecessary vigour.

"Do you know her?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Sarah Sawyer. The bartender I was just interviewing."

"No," Sherlock said. "Do you?"

"I've just hired her, if it'll be a problem."

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes innocently wide. "No, no problem at all. Is she qualified for the job?"

"Extremely."

"The _bar manager job,_ John."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock scowled at the peas and scooped them up into a spoon to cram them into the centrifuge's individual vials. "I hoped you looked at her CV longer than you looked at her—"

"Stop right there," John snapped. "When you're done having a snit, you're going to really like her. She wants to make ice spheres and she knows how to do that thing with Xantham gum that suspends bits of nonsense in a cocktail glass, so you can take your assumptions and you can shove them right up your arse. I'm not hiring on a whim, here, Sherlock. I'm trying to start a business. That's what you brought me on for. If you aren't going to let me do it the way I please, you can bloody well do it yourself."

God forbid Sherlock admit he was in the wrong; he snatched the CV from John's hands, looked it over in the space of a millisecond, and handed it back. "Fine," he said. "But she'll have her own _stage_ before you hire any bartenders to go under her."

"She'll hire her own bartenders," John said, and walked out again.

On Friday, the installation of the new fume hood over the main hob tore a chunk out of the kitchen ceiling and then they discovered the exhaust would have to go out by a route that risked the structural integrity of the building. It had been built originally as a boarding house, and its transition to industrial kitchen had been a haphazard one. John was adamant that the frame of the building needed shoring up before they punched another big hole in a load-bearing wall. Sherlock dug out blueprints of the whole building from one of his many files upstairs and found a new route that would risk less of the building's structure, but also required a detour into the first floor. He and John were summarily evicted by the contractors from the ground floor kitchen, and then again from Sherlock's sitting room by the racket taking place in the space between the bathroom and the staircase.

Reluctantly, John suggested, "We could go to mine."

"Perfect," Sherlock said, scowling in the direction of the banging and sound of drywall being scattered in pieces all over his bathroom floor. "Go hail a cab; I'll be down in a minute."

He joined John on the pavement five minutes later, laden with files. The cabbie's metre was already running.

"Bloody hell," John said.

"We're going to go over the menu," Sherlock said, sweeping past him in his magnificent coat and climbing into the cab.

John got in after him, and had to sit in the rear-facing seat to accommodate Sherlock's whims. “Some people have recipes digitised," he said as they pulled away from the restaurant.

Sherlock snorted and turned his collar up. "I do have them digitised," he said, crossing his arms and sinking back into his seat.

"And yet you brought—? Never mind." John rubbed his palms across the knees of his jeans and sighed. When they arrived, he would certainly refuse to carry them up the stairs.

 

Sherlock stepped inside the doorway and hesitated, looking around the single room of the bedsit. His left eyebrow inched upwards, but otherwise his expression didn't change. John, however, could read him well enough by now.

"At least it doesn't take long to clean," he said defensively.

Sherlock's other eyebrow went up. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." John went over and laid the files down on the desk, and then pulled the chair out. Other than the bed, it was the only place in the room to sit. Sherlock ignored him and crossed to the bed instead, toeing off his shoes and climbing to sit cross-legged on top of the duvet. He pulled his notebook out of his trouser pocket and a pen from his shirt.

"Tell me what you think of this," he said.

John sat down in the chair.

"Pea butter on bread," Sherlock said, thumbing the notebook open. "We'll use the juice as a jus for something else, but the fat in the peas can go on top of dehydrated herb crackers."

"The jus can be for a salad, as a dressing," John suggested. Sherlock tipped him a smile. John returned it and leaned back in the chair. The rungs dug into his back. He bent forward again to untie and slip off his shoes.

"Ultrasonic chips with a beef mousse."

"Ultrasonic, eh?" John asked. He gave up on the chair and crossed the room to climb up onto the bed beside Sherlock. _Mistake_ , he thought at once. Sherlock smelled like the kitchen, the aroma of his pear and pickle experiment still lingering in his curls, overlaying the scent of his shampoo. His knee bumped against John's thigh; it was warm where they touched.

"Cook the chips sous vide first in a salt brine at eighty eight degrees," Sherlock said, leaning over so that his forearm rested on John's knee, showing him the notebook. "Then into an ultrasonic bath, which creates micro ruptures in the surface. Double deep fry—low temperature to set the starch, high temperature to crisp it."

"Sounds mad," John said.

"The starch comes shooting out the ruptures," Sherlock said, "but the inside stays creamy."

"I'm guessing you've done that before."

Sherlock shrugged. "I've done a lot of things before."

John's face heated all at once, for no reason. Sherlock drew back, leaving a hollow of cold air in his absence, and turned the page. He dragged his pen across the page, crossing something out, and said, "I'm having second thoughts about the avocado and orange soup."

"No," John said, "I liked that one. And they're in season at the same time."

"Because they're imported," Sherlock said. "You said you wanted to stay as local as possible."

"Don't bin the recipe," John said, compromising on a matter he knew he was going to lose anyway.

"Goat's cheese waffle," Sherlock said in an abrupt change of subject.

"Simple enough. Is that a starter or a main?"

Sherlock sat up straight, almost butting John's head with his head. John stared at him.

"That's brilliant!" Sherlock cried.

"Is it?"

"Have you seen those waffle irons with the four little rings instead of the one big one?"

"Is this another toy you want to buy?"

Sherlock beamed. "You suggested it."

"I'm not sure what I've suggested."

"Mini-waffles with goat's cheese," Sherlock said, waving the notebook and then putting it back down on John's knee to scribble in it. "As a starter. With tarragon and rosemary. Sweet and savory. Should we do bacon on top?”

They went through Sherlock's notebook, arguing over, discussing, nixing and adding items, sorting them into starter, mains, and desserts. Sherlock also started giving some of the options numbers and noting down wines that would go with each meal, as if he were going to be able to get away with a prix fixe without John noticing. They shifted around on the bed as they worked through the afternoon, until Sherlock was lying across the foot of the bed with his feet up the wall, and John was propped up on the pillows, the notebook now in his possession. 

"What is this, 'foie gras rocher'? That sounds bloody awful, Sherlock."

"No, it's wonderful," Sherlock said, reaching out with one long arm and patting John's calf. "Chocolate and foie are _wonderful_ together."

"Eugh," John said, but he marked it as a dessert. "Duck liver pudding."

"For a chef," Sherlock said, "you have a decidedly unsophisticated palate."

John stretched out his foot and jabbed Sherlock in the ribs with his toes. "You shut up," he said. "The food I cook is practical."

"Unimaginative."

"Reliable."

" _Boring_."

That stung. "Oi!” John said, and gave him a harder kick. "If you think I'm boring, you can get out of my flat."

"Your _flat_ is boring," Sherlock said, half-sitting up, and for a moment John was worried he really was going to leave. "And your cooking might sound boring, but you, John Watson, are not." He gripped John's socked foot with his opposite hand and squeezed. "You stimulate the imagination. You conduct light."

John swallowed hard and looked down at the notebook again. Stimulate the imagination, indeed. It was a physical effort not to curl his toes in Sherlock's grip. "Right," he said, and cleared his throat. "Passion fruit juice raw egg."

"Ooh!" Sherlock let go and dropped himself back onto the bed. "It's a passion fruit juice alginate spherification as the yolk with thickened clarified juice as the albumen, served in a cracked quail's egg shell."

"Pudding?"

"Pudding, John." Sherlock shifted suddenly and squirmed, digging in his back trouser pocket. John realised he was going for his phone, which was confirmed a moment later when Sherlock pulled it out and put it to his ear. "Mrs Hudson, how is the wall?"

John took the distraction as an opportunity to stretch out his legs. They were falling asleep, but he didn't want to move from his proximity to Sherlock. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs, coaxing the feeling back into them. Sherlock was listening intently, his expression falling.

"A _week_?" he demanded. "Do they need to go and _get_ their contractors' licenses first? What the _hell_ is going to take—sorry, I'm sorry—what on _Earth_ is going to take a whole week?"

John sat forward. A week’s delay didn't sound like much, but it would mean time lost with the rest of the kitchen arrangement, with the cook _stage_ and subsequent hiring, with the set-up of the dining room. They wouldn't have to put off hiring the waiters, especially if they were going to go with Agency staff, but everything that got pushed back would skew their timetable more and more. John's stomach sank low.

Sherlock sighed heavily into the phone and glanced over at John, pulling a moue in apology and commiseration. "Mrs Hudson," he said, "it's not going to take a week." He waited again. "No, listen. I don't have—we don't have a week to wait. Restaurant week waits for no chef. We need that by Monday. No, no—" He had to stop again, and John could just barely hear Mrs Hudson speaking. "No," Sherlock said again, "I'll take care of it."

He rang off, turned his head to look at John with an expression of deep dissatisfaction, and said, "This is why I prefer to text."

"The hood exhaust is going to take a week?"

"No," Sherlock said, glaring at his phone. "It's going to be finished by Monday evening." He was texting furiously, his fingers practically bouncing off the touchscreen. He stopped and waited for a response. John watched, silent. He was glad he had insisted on contractors for the renovation, rather than let Sherlock do whatever he wanted to the building, but he wasn't going to gloat over that now. He scratched his thigh and waited. Sherlock dropped his phone onto his chest in disgust and rubbed a palm down the line of buttons on his shirt, across his abdomen. John tried not to see the flash of skin between his buttons. "God, I'm starving," Sherlock said.

"Fancy a takeaway?" John asked, and then immediately regretted it. Sherlock had just called his palate unrefined, and here he was offering Sherlock a curry from the hole in the wall down the street.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock said, with unexpected enthusiasm. He swung his legs around and sat up. "Is there something good nearby? I want lamb." His hair, disarranged by the friction of the duvet and the vehemence of his phone call, formed a frazzled halo around his head.

John had to look away again, and he fished his own phone out of his pocket. "Yeah, I know a place." He had them on speed dial, as it happened.

“Lamb vindaloo," Sherlock said, getting up off the bed. He vanished into the toilet as John placed the call.

They ate the curry on the floor, rather than the bed, and Sherlock made a series of unseemly noises as he dug into his vindaloo. John got over his personal embarrassment enough to tease him about it and demand if he was still so boring.

"I want to see you cook in person," Sherlock said. "You were right about watching it on the telly— they cut it all up and watch your face more than your hands. What on earth were you thinking, getting a place without a kitchen?"

John looked down into his rice and stabbed it a few times. "It was affordable, after the fire," he admitted.

Sherlock made a noise of disgust. "But what happened to the prize money from the show? Surely that didn't burn as _well._ "

“We were second place, Sherlock. There wasn’t any prize money. I had a book deal that fell through, and the excess from the insurance went to Harry," John said. "Her bills were bigger than mine. I've got the NHS on my side."

"John," Sherlock said, putting his food down and staring at John, open astonishment on his face. "What were you going to _do_?"

John moved the rice around a bit, heaping it into the sauce. Sherlock waited. Finally, John said, "I don't know."

Sherlock left after they'd finished the curry, taking his menu files with him. John couldn't very well offer him a place to sleep. In the morning, John rose at his usual hour, ate two pieces of toast with blackcurrant jam, showered, dressed, brushed his teeth, and stopped halfway out the door at Sherlock's text.

_Fume hood installation still in progress, kitchen unusable until 0900 Monday. Don't bother coming in. SH_

John already had his coat on, and he stood stupidly in the hallway for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do.

 _Menu?_ he replied.

_Binned it. Starting over._

_Do not do that._

There was no immediate reply. John rang him.

Sherlock picked up with a deep sigh of annoyance.

"Sherlock," John said, before he could protest or hang up, "do not bin the menu we worked on yesterday. It's all brilliant. If you need a distraction, plan something for the _stage_ next week. Challenge two: working from a recipe. Write up the recipe and figure out what we need for each cook to make one of whatever it is. We can test them on their ability to follow directions."

A moment of contemplative silence, and then Sherlock said, "All right."

"But for God's sake don't bin the whole menu."

"Fine. But I don't need you today. Go out and… see a museum. Or your physiotherapist."

"All… right…" John said.

Sherlock hung up.

John put his phone in his pocket, closed the door behind him, and went outside.

Miraculously, Ella had a free slot, so he suffered through an hour of painful stretching and strengthening exercises. He hadn't been doing his roster of exercises at home, he realised, but she didn't scold him about it, and instead complimented the limberness of his shoulder.

"You're not carrying your stress here anymore," she said, doing something that made it feel like the ball was going to come out of the socket.

"Oh, really?" John asked, tight as a drum.

She let go and eased his arm back to its normal position. "No, whatever you're doing, it's good for you. What _are_ you doing?"

"Opening another restaurant," John said.

After the appointment, John took the Central line to Hyde Park and walked for a while. February was living up to his expectations, being bitterly cold and disgustingly damp, and the gravel/mud mixture under his feet crunched with every step. London was grey and brown and splendid, and he couldn't appreciate any of it. He'd been so long without work, and now the work had come back at him all at once. He didn't _want_ a day off. He wanted to be back in the kitchen, even if it was noisy and full of contractors and unusable. He wanted to know what Sherlock was picking for the challenge. He wanted to watch Sherlock write it down in his cramped, spidery handwriting and shove it in his ridiculous recipe files.

He huddled into his coat, wishing he'd brought a scarf. The back of his neck tingled. Sherlock's dark blue scarf was a soft and luxurious merino. John coveted it. He could just imagine the warmth and prickle of the wool against his skin, and the lingering scent of hair product and Sherlock's skin.

Probably best to admit he coveted the throat that scarf was usually wrapped around, too. The whole package, really. Sherlock might have a slew of mad ideas, and be generally disliked by everyone in his profession, but to John he seemed nothing but brilliant and misunderstood and desperate to be heard. He did that thing with the personal information to get the upper hand, but John noticed he only did it aloud when he was surprised or distressed, caught off guard. It was a way to re-establish dominance over an interaction, to deflect criticism away from himself. It had the unfortunate effect of drawing a different _kind_ of criticism, the accusation that he was callous or unfeeling or insane, but then at least the slurs were more general and not directly related to his cooking. He also only did it to superiors or equals, never to anyone beneath him. In the videos John had seen, Sherlock would berate the commis chefs working at his station, but it was only ever about the food. Waiters, too, never got a dressing down, only a sharp word if they made an obvious mistake. The head chef, however, or the back of house manager, or the occasional entitled customer, took both barrels in the face.

John had started out skeptical, moved quickly into fascinated, and slid headlong into fond. Sherlock was a genius, and John wanted to protect him. He knew the impulse was inappropriate, especially as Sherlock would _never_ appreciate being thought of that way, but he couldn't help it, just like he couldn't help it that he kept getting distracted by the curve of Sherlock's lower lip, or the way he raked both hands through his hair while he was thinking, or the sparkle in his eye when he had a new idea. John was going to have to be careful. Sherlock was his business partner. He couldn't get that close. His relationship with Harry, merely the bonds of blood, had torn asunder their chances of working together again. If he got involved with Sherlock and any part of the arrangement went south, it would ruin all the rest.

He decided he would go in to 221 anyway. If the kitchen was in shambles and Sherlock was still busy, John would help himself to Sherlock's laptop and work on the staff allocations. He could use the company.

John caught the tube from Notting Hill Gate and went to Baker Street. His approach to the restaurant was slowed by the presence of an enormous black town car idling at the curb. John peeked in the window and came face-to-face with a beautiful, dark-haired woman, who gave him such a look of bored contempt that he almost stepped off the pavement in surprise.

Inside, the contractors greeted him and showed him the progress of the fume hood and the replacement of the ceiling they'd torn down. It was nearly done, as if they’d worked overnight. Sherlock, they said, was upstairs. They hadn't seen him for a few hours. John went out again and let himself in the B door. There was an unfamiliar voice coming from rooms above, so John took the stairs quietly, listening.

"Sherlock," it was saying—a man, late thirties, perhaps early forties, definitely Public school— "despite your apparent desire to throw my offers to help back in my face, I can't help but notice that your very fine kitchen is absolutely packed with equipment, and that your allowance is entirely depleted this month, as is your advance for next month."

"Don't talk to me about finances," Sherlock replied, obviously annoyed, "it's disgusting. Is it even safe for you to be here, in your delicate condition?"

"Please don’t be infantile," the other man said. "I'm extending an olive branch, Sherlock; surely even you can see that. This venture is utterly misguided, and you're going to need me sooner than you think."

John couldn't pretend he wasn't on the stairs any longer. He stepped into the flat's kitchen doorway and surveyed the scene in front of him.

Sherlock was leaning against the centrifuge wearing his uniform shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar undone. His apron had two purplish stains on it, where Sherlock would have wiped his hands. He was glaring—he stopped for a moment when John came in, but returned to the task with alacrity—at an equally tall, posh-looking man in a three-piece suit with a receding hair-line and an expression of profound annoyance on his face. His features echoed Sherlock's so strongly—same colouring, same high forehead, long, straight nose, and strong cheekbones—that they couldn't be anything but directly related.

"Mr Watson," the man said, sparing John a glance even later than Sherlock had. "So good of you to stop by."

"Can I ask what's going on in here?" John said, crossing his arms. "Is there a problem?"

"Mycroft was just leaving," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the man. "Weren't you, Mycroft? John and I have a lot of work to do, and you're taking up a _tremendous_ amount of space."

Mycroft ignored Sherlock, and turned to John with a cool, oily smile. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, bowing his head slightly in a distant show of respect that John didn't buy for a second. "It's good to finally meet you. I've heard absolutely nothing about you."

"Nor I you," John said.

"Certainly not," Mycroft said. He had an umbrella in his left hand, and he leaned upon it now. "I'd expect nothing less from my brother; he is very closed-mouthed when it comes to important subjects."

John's eyebrows went up in surprise. Beyond Mycroft, Sherlock was scowling deeply.

“Well,” John said, “the only subjects I’m really concerned about are those that pertain directly to the restaurant, so unless it has to do with how many pounds of beef mince we need to vaporise or how much electricity the centrifuge is going to use, I’m not particularly interested.”

Mycroft pursed his mouth in displeasure. “It might interest you to know exactly where the money Sherlock is spending is coming from,” he said, “but I’ll leave that to you two to discuss. I’d hate to see your funds dry up all of a sudden.”

Ah, that put a few things in place. Sherlock had been very free with the cheques he wrote, assuring John he had nothing to worry about and to please, in fact, stop bothering him, but he’d been cagey about the source. John had never suspected it was coming from somewhere illegal or inappropriate, and he had begun to think Sherlock hadn’t even heard the word ‘credit’ before in his life, but now Sherlock’s reticence fit the pattern.

John said nothing to that effect, however, and only gave Mycroft a tight-lipped smile as he stepped out of the doorway. Mycroft gave him another nod, raised an eyebrow significantly at Sherlock, and went out. John looked pointedly at the floor while his footsteps descended.

"What kind of car is that?" he asked, going to the window as soon as the door had closed. He watched as it drove away, deeply suspicious.

Sherlock threw up his hands and turned back to what he was doing, which was, apparently, freeze drying jelly babies. "He can't keep his fat fingers out of anything," he said.

Crossing to hang up his coat behind the door, John said, "Is he where the money's coming from?"

"No," Sherlock said, slapping down a jelly baby and cracking it in half. "The money is _mine_ , and I'm entitled to spend it any way I like."

John fought a smile. "You do realise how much you sound like a boy buying sweets on an allowance, don't you?"

"Oh, do shut up." Sherlock sighed. "I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you, John."

"I didn't expect you had," John said. He went to stand by the table and crossed his arms. "But unless I discovered you'd been laundering that money or running some kind of murder-for-hire racket on the side, I figured it wasn't my business."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "My brother has control of the family estate," he said. "I sound so much like a boy on an allowance because that's exactly what I am. I have been spending it rather freely lately, which to Mycroft would indicate that I'm spending it frivolously."

"So he came down to check on you?" John asked. "That's rather sweet."

"It's not sweet," Sherlock said, pointing a finger at John, "and I'll thank you to never suggest that again. Nothing he does is sweet, or endearing, or generous in any way. He is self-serving and meddlesome to the end."

“Family," John sighed.

"Anyway, what are you doing here? I told you not to come in."

"Got bored," John said. "Is this for the _stage_?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I've got that all sorted. Deconstructed caprese salad: balsamic caviar, olive oil suspension, mozzarella foam, and tomato-basil spaghetti."

“That’s brilliant," John said.

Sherlock's eyes crinkled when he smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ladies and gentlemen," John said to the small assembled crowd of potential chefs de partie and commis chefs, "thank you for coming in today. It's going to be a demanding two days, but I hope it will be an exciting one, and I expect you're all used to this kind of work schedule anyway."

There was a general murmur of assent. Behind John, Sherlock was still and silent, formidable in his pristine uniform whites. John could feel the intensity of his attention without even looking at him. They had spent the wee hours of that morning putting together the mise en place, arranging all the food John had bought for their preliminary tests, and making the kitchen presentable and navigable for a parcel of new cooks. John was no longer used to working those sorts of hours. He'd gone soft.

"We're looking to hire two teams," he went on, "although we haven't entirely decided how to split them up yet, or what the shifts are going to look at. But we want the job to be reliable, enjoyable, and worthwhile. Nevertheless, the pressure is on for myself and Chef to create a quality product, a unique and exciting menu, and we need to know if you are up to the task. We're going to have three challenges for you to complete. The first one is to create a starter from the ingredients in the kitchen right now, working in teams. Chef has paired you up and I'll give you those assignments in a moment. We'll have a little break for lunch and a chat, get to know one another a little better, and then afterwards we'll be doing an individual challenge to follow a recipe of Chef's devising. Tomorrow, we'll do a test run of thirty covers for dinner, randomly selected from our tentative menu. There will be a little bit of assembly line stuff, a few opportunities for some improvisation, and we might throw a few curve balls at you."

The group of cooks nodded.

"Overall, we're looking for your ability to work together, whether you can keep a cool head under pressure, and how creative you can be in the face of unusual ingredients. You're all aware of the intentions of this restaurant: to create new, inventive dishes that defy expectations and sometimes gravity. So, think big, use anything you can find, and collaborate. I’ll give you your pairings for the first challenge."

John had called back a few more people than he really wanted to keep, but group cohesiveness was as important as cooking skill; the latter they could develop, but not easily without the former. He'd deliberately mixed up people who had worked with Sherlock before (Barton, Hopkins, Forbes, MacDonald, and Patterson had all crossed paths with him during his brief stints at various restaurants) and the ones who had only heard of him (Dimmock, Gregson, Jones, Bradstreet, Morton, Montgomery, and Gregory), but so far he was pleased to see that they were all behaving themselves in Sherlock's presence. They wouldn't be here, doing the _stage_ , if they were so set against him. Hopkins and Forbes had been whispering together at the very beginning, when Sherlock walked in, but a sharp look split them up at once. If John had to do it again, he decided, they were both out.

He was down one already. Athelney Jones had turned up five minutes late, blamed the Tube, and Sherlock had said, "Out," very calmly. So calmly, in fact, that Jones didn't fight him; he just looked down at his shoes, said, "Yes, Chef," and left.

It certainly had set a nice precedent.

"Right," John said, when the cooks were all paired up (John chucked Montgomery in with Barton and Forbes, since Jones was gone) and had finished introducing themselves to one another. "If you need help, let me or Chef know. We want you to show us your best work, so don't panic. If you get into a bind, just call one of us over. Again, you can use anything you find, except what's in the second fridge and the freezer at the back. Those are for later. Okay? Go ahead."

"Once more unto the breach," Sherlock murmured under his breath as the cooks burst into a frenzy of activity. John couldn't help smiling.

The time allotted for the starter challenge raced by. John and Sherlock walked around, observing, asking questions, trying to assess the skill and character of each of the cooks. Two of the five groups were doing a vegetarian option— Hopkins and MacDonald had found the beetroot, and Morton and Gregory had chosen an aubergine— while one was doing seafood— Patterson and Bradstreet had chosen prawns— and the last two did meat— chicken for Dimmock and Gregson, and lamb for the trio of Barton, Forbes, and Montgomery. It was a good mix, and John approved. He couldn't quite tell what Sherlock was thinking, but he stopped to watch the lamb starter being prepared, and paused twice to sneer at the prawns as they were carefully hand-folded into their thin pastry parcels.

The cooks were also having to share the ovens and the hobs, which they did with a little bit of friction. They were on their best behaviour, but it was obvious that a few of them wanted to hog the space. Morton in particular was taking up more room than his aubergine really needed. John made a note.

As he walked by the two cooks making a roasted beetroot salad, he overheard the younger one, Hopkins, saying, "I don't care what he makes us do today, Sherlock Holmes is a bloody genius."

His partner, MacDonald, caught John's eye and started to grin as if in commiseration. John stared at him, impassive, and the grin faded.

"It'll be interesting to see what they've got in mind," MacDonald said, the wind taken out of him.

"You've got a fan, there," John said to Sherlock, a few minutes later, pointing Hopkins out. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "He thinks you're a genius."

"Well, you think that, but it doesn't make _you_ a fan."

John's face heated. "I've got to think you're a genius, otherwise what am I doing here?"

Sherlock shrugged. He had his hands tucked behind his back, maintaining his stance of authority, and it made John a little warm under the collar. He had to look away. If Sherlock baring his throat was bad, covering it with the fully-buttoned chef coat was worse. The coat fit him perfectly— had it been tailored? John wouldn't put it past him— and emphasised both the broad span of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist. Even the trousers, with their black and white check, managed to be flattering. John, on the other hand, trying to de-emphasise the fact that he was, technically, _also_ a chef, was in his jeans and a jumper.

"Anyway," he said, "keep an eye on Hopkins."

"Oh, yes, I want Hopkins," Sherlock said at once. "He's not perfect, but he has a great deal of potential and I think I could mould him to my satisfaction."

John made a note. "Fair enough."

Eventually they called a halt to the challenge, and the pairs all presented their finished and plated starters. The beetroot salad was simple but extremely aesthetically pleasing, so Hopkins and MacDonald were definitely in the running. The prawn parcels had come out perfectly fried, and the insides were steaming hot and very nicely seasoned, so Patterson and Bradstreet were still in. The lamb was underwhelming, but Barton, Forbes, and Montgomery had made an effort to salvage the dish when they'd realised it wasn't going to work, so that, at least, showed an ability to improvise twice. The other dishes came out well, nicely put together, and John was both pleased with himself for having picked decent cooks and annoyed that they weren't distinguishing themselves more.

They had a break for lunch, ordered in from a nearby restaurant, and Sherlock and John left the group to mingle. They went back through the kitchen to the little room by the fridges that served as John's new office.

"Montgomery is gone," Sherlock said. "He's cocky and I don't like him."

"Thought you'd take to someone like that," John said, crossing him off the list all the same.

Sherlock looked heavenwards, as if for support. "Personality clash," he said.

"MacDonald rubs me the wrong way," John said.

"Gone."

"Anyone else?"

Sherlock looked at the list, scrunched his nose in thought, and said, "Not yet."

"We need at least five, so we'll need to get rid of a few more."

The deconstructed caprese experiment started in complete silence, as all the cooks remaining bent over their allotted square of prep table and read the recipe. Again they were going to have to share the ingredients among them, but Sherlock had ordered in enough pipettes and rubber tubing for everyone. John was tempted to jump in and do his own version, just to give the noodle thing another go. He'd have to get Sherlock to show him again.

Soon enough, though, the cooks started to move, gathering supplies and prepping their stations. Sherlock was walking among them, answering questions about the technique in a low voice, and though John saw Morton wince when he came near, he spoke to her gently and when he walked away again she looked more comfortable with the process in front of her. They were in good hands.

While they worked, John stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room, which was starting to come together. John's contractor had finished building the bar to Sherlock's specifications, and then brought in painters to paint the walls a light blue that Sherlock had selected, and overlay it with a silver wash. It made the whole space look larger and more elegant, and Sherlock had looked incredibly smug the entire day after the paint dried. It was, John admitted, a classy choice. They had reordered the furniture: black walnut tables and aluminium chairs which would tone down the opulence of the walls. Sherlock had also selected pendant lights for each table and under-counter lighting for the bar that would be installed next week. Things had begun to visibly mesh, and it made John breathe a little easier.

He went to the loo, which would be receiving its own makeover soon—the same blue walls, this time with a copper wash; concrete sinks; big mirrors and LED lighting—and went to check in with Sarah Sawyer, who had come in to work on the set-up of her bar. Sherlock had given her carte blanche to purchase alcohol, and she was currently unloading her veritable truckload.

"How's your menu looking?" John asked, sliding onto a bar stool and putting his elbows on the bar. She and Sherlock had been working on a list of cocktails and Sherlock had taught her several of the techniques the cooks in the kitchen were currently implementing.

"Oh, John," she said, wiping down a glass and placing it neatly with the others on the shelf behind her. "Sherlock's a bloody genius, had you noticed?"

"I had, actually," he said, putting his chin in his hands. "What's he done now?"

"He found these tumblers with rounded bottoms," Sarah said, taking one down. "We're going to make a gellified triple layer drink that we'll just pull out of the fridge when it gets ordered and pour the liquor over top of it. He's thinking of mango, peach, and ginger ale, all turned into gel. Then the liquor will be either vodka or gin, and it will start to break down the gel a bit. I've also ordered popping candy to make the drinks fizz."

"That sounds incredible," John said.

“It’ll be a bit of work on the front end," Sarah said, putting the tumbler back. "But I think it'll be worth it. We're going to have things no one else has even _seen_ before."

"What else have you got?"

"He's obsessed with that spherification thing," she said, grinning. "He wants melon liqueur caviar in pomegranate, with a melon garnish. Ice spheres with a screwdriver inside. I love a good ice sphere. He also wants to do some nonsense with lighting absinthe on fire, but we haven't actually confirmed that one yet. I've done some silly stuff in the past, for parties and such, but nothing as focused as this."

John laughed. "What about the regular blokes?" he asked. "Got anything on draught back there?"

"Fortunately for you, yes," she said, grinning. "I'm getting a two beers from Bulldog in right before we open. They've committed to it, and have promised me twelve kegs a week to start. Nothing in cans, though, I'm afraid. I don't think Sherlock's happy about it. The beer, I mean. This restaurant's not for 'regular blokes,' he'd say."

"Oh, bollocks to Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock said he wanted to match a wine list to the menu, as well. Charge eighty or a hundred quid to have it served alongside the dinner."

"You should charge more than that," Sarah laughed, "judging by what I now know of Sherlock's tastes. He's going to buy the priciest bottles for his own amusement."

John shook his head. "Sometimes I'm not sure why he brought me in, if he's just going to buy whatever he wants.”

"He needs you," Sarah said. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and rested her elbows on the bar across from John. "He's a genius, that's for certain, but he needs someone like you to keep him grounded, keep him on track. Otherwise he'd spent his whole time dreaming up things that _could_ happen, and never getting any of it in production. That's your strength, John: putting things into motion."

John hid a smile behind a brush of his hand across his mouth. "Maybe you're right," he said.

"Of course I am," Sarah replied. "I'm always right."

"I need to hire you some staff," John sighed, mentally adding it to his list.

"I need a barback and at least two other bartenders for the dinner rushes," Sarah agreed. "Are you going to serve food at the bar?"

"I'll have to ask Sherlock. Probably not. Gauche."

"Good, because if I have to tend bar _and_ serve, I'm not going to be happy. Food's not my thing, John; liquor is."

"I'll get you a barback," John said. "Got anyone in mind?"

"Oh, so when you say you'll get me a barback, you mean you want me to pick one and you'll write down his name?"

"Exactly."

"I do have a nephew, Craig."

"Call him." John slid off the stool. "And the next time I come over here for a chat, I expect there to be something outrageous and made of jelly waiting for me to try."

Sarah laughed and flicked her towel at him as he walked away. John winked. As he turned around, he came up short against Sherlock's chest. He swallowed hard, stepped back, and looked up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked strangely displeased.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice lower than John had expected. "I've been waiting for you for ten minutes."

"All right," John said, "I went to the loo and then I talked to Sarah about how's she's getting on with the bar. It took about six minutes, so don't try that intimidation stuff with me. Are they done in there already?" 

Sherlock's mouth twitched in displeasure, but he said, "No."

"Well, then? You're the expert, Sherlock."

"You're the judge of character."

John raised an eyebrow at him. "We're not testing them on character, this round."

" _Fine,_ " Sherlock huffed. "When you're quite done having your _chat_ , then." He stalked back into the kitchen.

"Thank you." John rolled his eyes at Sarah, who stifled a smile. "The price of genius is manners, apparently," he said. "You okay out here?"

"Just fine, thanks," Sarah said. "I'll probably head out around three, so I can get to work by five."

"I thought you were all ours, now?"

"Well, it's tempting, honestly, but I'm staying on at the Dove until they decide which shift manager they're going to promote."

"We open in April," John reminded her.

"I'll be ready."

They sent the chefs home after the caprese salad, and stayed behind to consider each one critically. Sherlock was in a mood that John couldn’t help but suspect was about Sarah, and for a brief, uncomfortable moment he considered sacking Sarah before they’d even begun. If Sherlock didn’t like her, he was going to make her life a nightmare.

Although, if he planned on driving her out, he could have done it already. One word to John—one deliberate word, and none of this sneering and mumbling—and John would let her go. No, it wasn’t as simple as all that. John had even caught Sherlock chatting with her a few times… how else would they have discussed the ice spheres and the jelly booze? No, the sticking place was John.

 _Christ,_ John thought, realizing the truth. _No, that can’t be right._

“This one’s sloppy,” Sherlock said, pointing at a basil noodle. “Whose is that? They haven’t followed the directions at all.”

John looked down his list. “MacDonald.”

“Out.”

John made a note.

“Ugh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock snorted, picking up the next plate, “have these people ever seen a tomato in their lives? Whoever did this is out.”

“Patterson.”

“I thought we got rid of him already.”

“Well,” John said, admitting nothing, and made another tic mark.

Sherlock banged his fist down on the table. “These are all rubbish!” he cried. “We’ll start over.”

“We’re not starting over,” John said.

“I can’t work with people who can’t follow simple directions.”

“Sherlock,” John said, and put down his list. “They’re learning.”

“It’s not rocket science.” Sherlock was standing with his back to John now, his hands fisted in his hair. His ribs were heaving.

“No,” John agreed, and risked reaching out to put a hand on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock flinched in surprise but didn’t pull away. “But it’s not what they’re used to. They’re not all rubbish. They’re just… sort of rubbish while they get the hang of it.”

Sherlock sighed, deeply put out, and dropped his hands. He shoulder sagged.

“We’ve still got tomorrow,” John said, giving him a pat. “We’ll see who can come up with not-rubbish under pressure. We’ve got weeks yet. It’ll be fine.”

It was not exactly fine. The prep took too long for Sherlock's taste, even though the cooks were working with techniques some of them had never tried before. There wasn't time to teach and test, John thought, staying out of the way at the back of the kitchen with his clipboard in hand.

“We don’t have all evening!” Sherlock boomed, when the gellification of the bell pepper wasn’t moving quickly enough for him.

John had pre-selected the thirty full orders from Sherlock’s working menu, but only about twenty of them made it onto their plates property. Molly and her assistant Toby made the best showing, plating twenty six orders properly, but it was mostly because she’d come up with the desserts herself.

Sherlock shouted a bit at first, trying intimidation on for size again, but as the _stage_ went on he became more subdued. His mouth and the corners of his eyes got tight, and he corrected mistakes with brusque efficiency. He wasn’t happy.

They sent everyone away at half five, only slightly over their scheduled time, and John left Tim Wiggins, the porter, boxing up the meals for donation and cleaning dishes. Sherlock had vanished upstairs into the flat almost as soon as John had given the chefs permission to go, and John expected to find him in a proper strop.

Instead, Sherlock was standing at the window, staring down into the street. He’d already exchanged his chef whites for trousers and a jacket.

“Well,” John said, to his back, “that was…”

“A nightmare.”

“I was going to say ‘challenging’.”

Sherlock snorted.

“I could use a drink,” John said.

“Good,” Sherlock said, turning around suddenly, “because we’re going for one.” He looked John up and down. “You’ll have to do for now, but you really should start keeping some clothes here.”

“I _don’t live here_ ,” John said.

“All the same.” Sherlock clapped his hands. “Come on, then.” He strode past John and left him standing on the landing.

“Wait, you’re serious?” John called after him. “We’re going out for a drink?”

Sherlock opened the street door and looked back. John could only see a sliver of his face, pale and strange in the falling twilight. “Well,” Sherlock said, “sort of.”

The cab dropped them on Upper Thames Street at six, just beyond the pedestrian bridge. Sherlock reached out to usher John along, steering him toward the iron-gated door in the middle of the huge sandstone building.

“When you said, ‘we’re going for a drink’,” John said, craning his neck up at the stone carvings above the door, “you meant we’re going to Vintners Hall.”

Sherlock made a vague noise of agreement as they went through the gateway.

John sighed to himself. “Should have seen it coming.”

Sherlock was giving his name to the man at reception, and at the same time taking off his enormous coat. They were both on the list, it appeared; John found that he wasn’t as surprised as he probably should have been.

They handed in their coats at the coat check and Sherlock led the way through the foyer. John caught glimpses of the overwhelming swan theme, the emblem of the Vintners, and then they were in the great hall, windows stretching up above them and ancient livery flags looming above the huge glass cases of old company silver. This was where London’s winemakers had met and dined since the fifteenth century. This was _historical_.

There were tables around the perimeter of the room, filled with bottles of wine for tasting, and spittoons in the middle for dispensing with that wine once it had been tasted. An elderly man with white whiskers was spitting into one at that moment, and John vowed to swallow every mouthful of wine he tasted tonight, despite the number of bottles on display.

Sherlock was shaking hands with the sommelier and speaking to her in low, smooth French. John had taken a little French in school, and a basic understand was essential in the cooking world, but Sherlock’s French went well beyond that; he had studied in Paris, John remembered. He spoke with the ease of a native. John stepped up behind him to hear better, and heard his name at once as Sherlock indicated him.

“Ah,” the sommelier said, “John Watson, such a pleasure to meet you!” She had an English accent, and her hand was warm when John shook it. “I saw you on the telly last year.”

John managed not to wince. “Cheers,” he said. “Thanks. Yeah.”

“Opening a new restaurant, eh?” she went on. “Terribly exciting stuff. Sherlock warned me you two were coming, so I’ve got a list of things on the tables you definitely ought to try, but don’t hesitate to sample anything else that catches your eye.” She winked.

“Right, thanks,” John said.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock huffed behind him.

John turned, about to tell him off for interrupting _yet another_ perfectly innocuous conversation with a woman he barely knew, and saw Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper across the room, frozen in surprise at the sight of them.

“What the hell are they doing here?” Sherlock fumed. “Together, no less?”

John took them in: Greg was wearing a nice jacket and tie, and Molly looked entirely transformed out of her cooking whites: she wore a black, glittering dress that just reached her knees and was wobbling atop her sky-high silver heels. “They’re on a date,” he said.

“Christ,” Sherlock muttered. “As if we need any fraternization.”

Greg and Molly were having a furious, whispered conversation in each other’s ears, their eyes fixed on Sherlock and John, but Sherlock made the decision for them and strode away across the room, leaving John and the sommelier in his wake.

“Well, anyway,” the sommelier said, after a moment, “here’s the list of things I think he’ll like, but it’s just a guideline. Er… enjoy.”

She left John alone, so John went after Sherlock. He spent an awful lot of time following around behind Sherlock, like he was being dragged by a particularly large and aggressive dog.

"You're not supposed to be here," Sherlock was saying to Greg, pointing a finger at him.

“Ah ah,” Greg said, and pushed his finger down, “I think you’ll find I am on the list, same as you.”

“Because you’re in catering,” Sherlock said. “You know the event manager.”

“So? _You_ know the event manager. And I’m not in catering anymore, remember?”

Sherlock glared. “And you, Miss Hooper,” he said, turning instead on Molly. John caught his arm before he could really get going.

“Sherlock, they’re here to taste wine,” he said. “ _You’re_ here to taste wine. Maybe they’ll have some input.”

“In those shoes?” Sherlock muttered.

"What's wrong with my shoes?" Molly demanded. She'd stood up to Sherlock in the kitchen already when he'd questioned her mousse, sticking a spoon in his mouth as he'd started on a lecture about aeration. He'd shut up right quick, licked the spoon clean, and only berated her about speed after that. John had wanted to give her extra marks for it, but he'd already hired her.

“Enough.” John gave Sherlock a shake. “Your friend gave me a list for you, so why don’t you start at the top with the sparklings and I’ll come join you in a minute?”

Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed; he knew he was being managed. Nevertheless, he snatched the list from John’s hands and stalked off towards the champagne table.

“Hi,” John said, as soon as he was out of earshot. “Sorry.”

Greg waved a hand. “It’s just Sherlock. Should have known he’d be here. Didn’t expect to see you, though!”

 _Why not?_ John thought. Aloud, he said, “Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep him on track. Can’t come home with sixteen cases of Brut on a whim.” Greg laughed, and Molly allowed a smile. “Care to come along?” John asked them both. “I think we could get good and knackered on sips alone.”

When they reached him, Sherlock had forgotten all about his annoyance. He pointed out two champagnes that he wanted John to compare, and watched John intently as he tried them. Then he made him try two more and compare those.

“I like the second ones best,” John said.

Sherlock snorted. “Fine.”

“What, is that wrong? Get the other ones, then.”

“No, it’s--” Sherlock sighed. “You’re right, the second ones are better.” He circled them on the sheet. “Lestrade, try this one. Molly, you’ll like the one on the end. John, whites now.”

John trailed after him, sipping on command. Sherlock held the wines in his mouth for a long time, long enough that John's jaw started to ache watching him, and then dutifully spit them out in the receptacles. John swallowed. They picked six white wines out of the ten on offer, arguing over sweet and dry, and making the staff serving them visibly nervous. By the time they'd reached the first of the reds it was after seven, the great hall had filled up with other tasters, Greg and Molly had caught up again, and John was definitely on his way to tipsy.

"All right, Sherlock?" Greg asked, peering at his list upside down. "Oh, not the 2005 Castelle sauvignon?"

Sherlock snorted. "It was _boring_ ," he said. "John didn't like it."

"No, I didn't," John agreed. "Not a lot of depth to it."

"This one was nice," Molly said, pointing at the semillon Sherlock had circled three times. "Are you thinking for the oyster parfait?"

Sherlock's eyebrow inched up in consideration, and he made a little note on the edge of the paper. "Yes," he said, slowly. "I am."

"Sherlock, we talked about the prix fixe," John said, nudging Sherlock with his elbow. He met Sherlock's solid side with some surprise, feeling the warmth of his body through both their shirts and jackets.

"It's just a _suggestion_ ," Sherlock groused, and tucked the pen away again. "You never let me do what I want."

At John and Greg's simultaneous laugh of disbelief, Sherlock's smile was sly and quietly pleased. His cheeks flushed pink and he turned away.

"Come, John," he said. "Lots of work still to be done."

The flush remained as they sipped their first reds, and he kept meeting John's eyes and looking away again, furtive. It was decidedly unsubtle. The wine was getting to him too, despite the care with which he spit. When they had tasted all six on the table, John said, "Well, chef?" and it made Sherlock's blush deepen.

"The black currant in this one is good," Sherlock said, clearing his throat.

"I liked the black pepper in the last one."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Too sharp, and I don't like the smokiness of it," he said.

"Really? I thought you'd like a smoky taste."

"Not in wine."

"Hm."

Sherlock looked at him. "You think we should get it."

"I think it would be nice with the venison thing you mentioned."

"That's for autumn and winter," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Honestly, John. Venison in April."

"Oh, thinking ahead, are we?" John teased. "Bit ambitious?"

Sherlock tipped his chin up, defiant. "Ambition is everything."

"All right," John said. "We'll come back to that one when the summer's over and we haven't made complete fools of ourselves."

Sherlock's smile made his own face heat.

Working their way through the reds was a slower process; there were more bottles that Sherlock wanted to try, and now that he'd warmed up to the idea of three support taste-testers rather than just one, he made them each sip, savor, and report. Molly was getting giggly, leaning on Greg, and Greg was not much better off. John's palate was starting to become fatigued.

"Sherlock," he said, after a table full of malbecs and cabernet savignons, "if you'd let us go for a proper drink, rather than trick me into doing an important tasting, we could stop for a minute and put something in our stomachs. Chips, maybe. We're doing this half of the room a disservice."

"Chips," Sherlock repeated, aghast.

"We're almost done," Greg said, giving John's shoulder a hearty thump. "Soldier on, John."

It should have hurt, John realised. The alcohol had dulled his nerves. He gave his shoulder a subtle roll in its socket and then nodded at Sherlock's sideways look of inquiry. 

"All right," he said. "Make it good, Sherlock."

The last table _was_ good, a set of Italian wines that John didn't have a lot of experience with. One of them was £65 a bottle, which Sherlock lingered longingly over, giving John little hopeful glances. John sipped it slowly, regretting the last seventeen wines he'd tried for sullying this experience even a little. It was fruity and silky, and for a moment the noise in the room dulled a little as he met Sherlock's eyes again.

"Yes," he said.

Sherlock beamed.

"I don't even care what you have planned to pair it with, or if it sits in the back until we have to go through it ourselves."

"Oh, don't worry," Sherlock said, "a bottle of each of these goes in my collection upstairs."

John grinned at him, fuzzy around the edges. "Of course it does."

He stood aside with Greg and Molly as Sherlock paid for the wine and delivery of same, not even wanting to hear the charge. The spectre of Mycroft loomed, chastising. John couldn't imagine Sherlock spending his inheritance on cocaine, not when he returned with such joy from dropping a couple thousand pounds on wine. Although, now he had a _reason_ to buy thousands of pounds worth of wine.

Sherlock thanked the sommelier, showing her his list of scribbles, and led John out by the elbow. Greg and Molly were just behind. When they were once again in their coats and outside in the sharp February air, John had his face tipped up toward the sky. Rather than sober him up, the cold only highlighted how many wines he'd tried.

"I think we're going to go," Greg said. He was arm in arm with Molly, and she was shivering. "That was fun, though, wasn't it?"

Sherlock looked them up and down and John watched him hold back a verbal inference about their next destination. Instead he said, "Yes, thank you for your input. On the wines, I mean."

Greg raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged. They were all a bit drunk.

"Anytime," Greg said.

"I won't be taking you up on that."

Greg grinned. "Right, no, I figured." To Molly, he said, "Shall we?"

As they got into a cab, Sherlock turned his face to the sky. John watched his profile in the light of passing car headlamps. Sherlock blew out a transparent cloud of breath and looked down at John again.

"I should," John said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the bridge across the Thames and the distant South Bank. It was after nine, and the early morning start they'd had was dragging on him.

"Oh," Sherlock said, "Right. Did you want to… not, er, come back to Baker Street, I mean, but… get something to eat?" With a grimace, he added, "Chips?"

"Not if it's going to make you make that face." John smiled at him, suffused with warmth and affection for this strange, abrasive, brilliant man. "But yeah, I could eat. Did you have somewhere in mind?"

Sherlock looked around, the upturned collar of his coat brushing his cheeks. His eyes were bright. "Not really, no."

"That's all right," John said, "I've got an idea."

They crossed the Southwark bridge, huddled into their coats against the air that was even colder above the river, and John found himself knocking into Sherlock a few times, just to make sure he was still there. Sherlock didn't shy away; indeed, he bumped right back, colliding softly with John's upper body as they walked. Once across the bridge, John led them down into the warren of alleys around Southwark until they found the hole in the wall he had in mind.

Sherlock glared at the brightly lit window, skeptical to the end. "John, isn't this a terribly American fad?"

"I don't think they'd like to hear you call chicken and waffles a fad," John said, dragging him inside by the elbow. "Come on, you'll enjoy it."

The restaurant was not much more than a counter and a couple of high tables with stools, so John ordered take away and urged Sherlock back outside once their hands were full. They walked back towards the river and found themselves on the bankside near the Globe. The pedestrians were few and far between, and paid John and Sherlock no mind as they leaned on the wall. It was warmer huddled close to Sherlock in his enormous coat, so John did, and they were pressed together from shoulder to elbow.

"I can't say I approve of it as finger food," Sherlock said, biting into his waffle, which was wrapped like a cone around the fried chicken and spicy jam, "but it will certainly do."

"It'll do," John echoed, laughing. "I dare you _not_ to finish that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite.

"God, I love this bloody city," John said, looking out over the water and all the glittering lights across the river. "What a mess it is."

Sherlock made a soft noise of agreement. "I missed it."

"When you were in Paris?" John asked. "How long were you away?"

Hesitating, Sherlock took another big bite of his food and chewed with intention. John was content to wait. Finally Sherlock said, "A few years ago I... left London for a while. Went to the country."

"Where to?"

"Near Birmingham."

"What's in Birmingham?"

Sherlock hesitated again, looking down into the water, and then he said, "Shit restaurants."

Sherlock did finish his waffle, right down to licking the jam off the paper wrapper. Then they parted ways, somewhat reluctantly; it was much closer for John to go home, now, rather than go back to Baker Street. It would have been ridiculous. Sherlock got into a cab and didn't look back. John took the Tube home.

He showered, already sobering up, and got into bed. In the dark, John thought about the wines they had tried and chosen, wishing he'd taken more notes. He remembered the flavours but couldn't remember which was which. When they opened the cases next week, he wasn't going to know what went where. But Sherlock had been diligent, as ever. His obsession with details was his gift. He'd watched John so intently the whole evening, trusting his judgment and relying on his opinions.

John loved the intensity of that gaze. It was unnerving and flattering at the same time. It made him blush. He was blushing now, alone in bed in the dark, and he felt the heat suffusing his whole body. He wasn't drunk anymore when he put his hand down his shorts.

It was probably rude to think about Sherlock like this, John mused, as his prick stiffened under his own gentle ministrations. He cupped and stroked himself until he was fully hard, and then he pushed his shorts down so that the elastic hugged underneath his balls. He imagined Sherlock watching him do this as he watched John do anything else; assessing, anticipating. John's breath caught and his cock twitched. He was starting to leak. He rubbed his thumb slowly across his moistened tip, his thighs sliding apart, and he pulled his heels up to brace against the bed.

It didn't last long-- once John started imagining Sherlock's intensity of focus turned away from cooking and onto sex. He pictured what Sherlock would look like with his mouth open for John's cock-- God, so inappropriate, Sherlock was his business partner-- and decided it would be pretty fucking spectacular. He jerked himself hard and fast, chasing his climax. When he came, it was with a groan and a jolt, spurting wet and hot onto his bare belly.

He considered showering again, but the toll of the day, the _stage_ , the wine, all convinced him not to. Instead he mopped up with a handful of tissues and tossed them aside. He fell asleep, too tired to feel property guilty about the whole thing.


	6. Chapter 6

John found he could look Sherlock in the eye after his private indiscretion, but it didn't stop him from having little flashbacks to the fantasy over the next week that sent heat down his spine. Sherlock had no idea. He went on dithering over which sous chefs they were going to hire as if everything was normal. He adjusted and readjusted the menu he was building, adding things that sounded uncharacteristically boring— mushroom omelet, pasta— but which turned out to be completely insane. The pasta was made with cocoa and would be served with sea urchin.

"Save that for the summer," he said. They were in the flat; John had been moving details on their logo design around by millimetres for what felt like hours. Sherlock shoving the notebook in his face had been a blessed relief.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, about to disagree on instinct, but a moment later he had reconsidered and was nodding. "Right," he said, sitting back down in his armchair and scribbling. "Yes, that's— that's a good idea."

"There's a reason you keep me around," John reminded him.

Sherlock pursed his mouth and John realised he was trying, and failing, not to smile. When he relaxed and let it come naturally, it was a really charming, slightly lopsided smile. John wanted to see more of it. Among other things.

"Have you picked our new hires?" he asked, clearing his throat.

Sherlock slumped over the notebook and then flung himself backwards into a sprawl of epic dramatic effect. " _No_ ," he moaned. "I hate them all."

That made John sit up, putting his laptop aside. "What? Do you? We can— I think we _might_ have time—"

"No," Sherlock said again, staring up at the ceiling, despair written on his face, "I don't hate them. I just— I don't love any of them. It's too hard. They're too different. There are too many possibilities, too many combinations. Too many unknowns."

John stared at him for a moment, and then reached out and touched Sherlock's knee. Sherlock started and lifted his head to stare at John.

"I'll do it," John said. " _That's_ why you keep me around. I'll pick and you can overrule if you must, but… let me do it."

"You won't understand my ranking system," Sherlock said, already flipping pages in his notebook.

John rolled his eyes and took his hand back. Should his fingers be tingling like that? "We'll see about that," he said.

Sherlock tore out the pages and handed them over.

John's phone vibrated with an incoming text as he settled back into his chair. He fished it out, distracted, and blinked in surprise at the message.

_**New Message from Mary Morstan:** _

_I meant to ring you, but I'm in town until Wednesday. Don't suppose you have time for a drink?_

"Who's that?" Sherlock asked.

John glanced up at him, "Old friend," he said. He put the notes down on the table to reply.

_Love to. When?_

Mary responded almost at once: _Is tonight too soon?_

 _Lamb and Flag?_ John wrote. _7?_

_Perfect :)_

"What old friend?" Sherlock demanded.

"Christ, Sherlock; my old floor manager, from Northumberland." He put his phone away again and picked up the notes. "I'm going to have dinner with her tonight, if that's all right with you."

Sherlock closed his notebook. "John, we need to get ready for the interview tomorrow."

"We can do it in the morning," John said. "What else is there to get ready? You're the one with the menu. A little time alone to make some decisions might be good for you."

"What about my sous chefs? I want them here tomorrow as well."

"Oh, nice," John said, spreading the notes out with a snap of the paper. "Did you just decide that? Right. Andy Dimmock you liked, Stanley Hopkins couldn't get enough of you, Emma Bradstreet can handle a knife, Toni Gregson has a brain, and Jonas Forbes didn't fuck up your caprese. There. Do you want to ring them or shall I?"

Sherlock stared at him in shock. " _John_ ," he started.

"No? Okay." John stood up, determined not to absolutely wring Sherlock's neck. "I'll give them a buzz, ask them to come in tomorrow." He folded up the notes and tucked them in his pocket so Sherlock couldn't overrule him, and went to get his coat.

"John," Sherlock said again, and John heard him get up from the armchair, "you can't just—"

"I just did," John said. He folded his collar down and zipped up. When he turned, Sherlock was right there in front of him, glowering. John looked up into his face, determined not to get distracted by the depth of his stained-glass eyes. "Any objections to my decisions?"

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed. His lips were very pink.

"Excellent. See you in the morning."

"Fine," Sherlock said, as John went down the stairs. Damn the man, couldn't leave the last word hanging. "But if any of them are late, they're out!"

John called the five chefs on his way to the Lamb and Flag, and each of them agreed to be at 221 at half eight the next morning. He didn't actually know if Sherlock had anything planned for them yet, but if Sherlock was going to spring things on John like that he'd better be prepared to follow through.

Mary was waiting at the bar when he arrived, looking as if she belonged there. They'd spent more than a few late nights here after the dinner shift at Fifth Northumberland, and even with her haircut and her new coat she brought the memories thundering back.

"John," she said, reaching for him, and he embraced her tight.

"It's good to see you," he said into the warm rose scent of her hair.

"Have you eaten?" she asked, as they drew apart. She held him at arm's length and looked him up and down. "You look good, John."

"And you," he replied. "I haven't eaten. Shall we sit down?”

They found a low table to huddle together over, and when their food came it nearly filled the space. Mary had left shortly after the fire and gone back to Leeds. Her dad hadn't been well at the time, and, once released from her obligations of showing up to work, she'd disappeared quicker than John could have expected.

"I'm managing a restaurant on the Headrow now, yeah," she said, taking a sip of her rosé. "It's a little place: Italian. Chef's a real sweetheart, and he and his wife, who actually owns they place— they're from Naples, so they're doing it right. It's a little gimmicky, big champagne bottles and bad Roman murals everywhere, but the food is good. And the pay, the pay is good."

John smiled. "So you landed on your feet, then," he said. "That's good."

"More or less," she said. "Dad's been glad to have me back, anyway. And I'll bet it's a lot less stressful than working with this Sherlock Holmes nutter of yours." She gave him a waggling-eyebrows kind of look, hoping for the dish. His stomach clenched and he hid his frown behind his glass.

"So you've heard of him?"

"I just hired a grill chef who had worked with him early on. Said he was a nightmare."

"Ah, he's not so bad. He just has to be in charge, that's all, and he doesn't suffer a fool."

"So what the hell is he doing with you, then?" she asked, grinning.

John's laugh was forced. "He's the brains of the operation," he said. "I'm the brawn."

"How's your arm?" Mary asked abruptly.

John put his beer down and flexed his hand, turning it over to show her. "It's all right," he said. "Getting better, I guess. Bit shaky, still."

"Are you cooking at all with this new project, or…?"

"Sherlock's doing the cooking," John said, "and I'm doing _literally_ everything else."

"Ah, well, you always did like everything else."

"Sure, but I didn't go to culinary school to do everything else."

Mary lifted her glass in a toast. "To everything else," she said, and drank.

John joined her, taking a bigger gulp than he should have. His eyes watered. When he swallowed, Mary was looking at him with her head tilted to one side; her earrings glittered in the light. He'd seen them catch the light that way a hundred times, but it all felt very far away. They weren't going back to work together in the morning. They would never work together again. Fifth Northumberland was behind him and so was everything that had gone with it.

"So," Mary said carefully, turning her wine glass between her fingers, "how's Harry?"

"She's fine," John said.

"What does she think of your new venture?"

"Lukewarm reception."

"Understatement of the year, I'm sure," Mary said.

"Well, she did drop by a few weeks ago to shout at me and hasn't been in touch since."

"Sounds like her." Mary sighed. "I should ring her. Catch up a bit."

"She'd like that."

They finished their meals, subdued.

"Anyway," Mary said. "Fancy a pudding?"

"I should get back," John said, pushing away from the little table. "Sherlock's been going a bit mental about the menu and he'll need me to talk him out of turning everything into foam."

"Well, it was good to see you," Mary said, rising as he did to give him a hug. Her floral perfume lingered in his nose. "Have fun; don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He didn't really need to go back to Baker Street; Sherlock was probably sulking and would be annoyed if he turned up again unannounced. Which was why John went. He unlocked the B door— and why had he not thought Sherlock giving him a key to the flat, "just in case," was suspicious?— and went upstairs, not bothering to creep. Sherlock would have heard the street door open.

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, a slab of hardwood in each hand, atop which smoked an array of artisan mushrooms. He met John's eyes as John ascended and gave him a look that managed to combine relief and disdain.

"Ah, John," he said, as John reached the landing, "date didn't go well?"

"Wasn't a date," John said, "and it went fine."

"But she didn't take the job."

"I didn't offer Mary a job. I thought you never guessed at things."

Sherlock snorted and turned away to put the mushrooms down. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

"Because we need to talk about your inappropriate and totally unnecessary jealous streak," John said, taking off his coat and hanging it up behind the sitting room door.

Sherlock whirled around. "I beg your pardon!"

"I can't talk to Sarah Sawyer for five minutes without you throwing a fit," John said, "and while I commend your valiant effort _not_ to care about me having dinner with a former employee, you're a terrible liar."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm only concerned for the success of our restaurant, John. If you won't commit—"

"I've committed everything to this bloody restaurant since the minute I met you!" John cried. "You know perfectly well that this is the best thing to happen to me since I got into cooking school! I take one night off— and I can't believe you'd think I'd hire a bartender just to ogle her! You claim to be able to read people, I hope to God you'd know me well enough by now to know I wouldn't try to get off with the staff."

"Mary Morstan isn't your staff anymore," Sherlock said.

John pointed a finger in his face. "You are _determined_ to pick a fight about her, aren't you?"

"You're the one who came back here! Why else but to rub her in my face?"

"Why else, indeed?" John asked, sinking back onto his heels. Sherlock glared a him, but John could see the wariness behind the hostility. He truly had no idea. "She's not my type, Sherlock."

"Why not, John? She's attractive, you're bisexual."

"Strangely enough," John said, "those are not really the only things I take into consideration when embarking on a sexual relationship." How Sherlock had picked up on and then decided to identify John’s preferences was another conversation they would definitely be having later, probably at the same volume they were having this conversation.

Sherlock huffed. "They're the only relevant factors."

"No, it's really not. She might be attractive, but I did meet her through Harry."

"So?"

"Harry's gay, and has a lot of gay friends. Wait, did you look her up while I was gone? How do you know what she looks like?"

"No," Sherlock said, sneering. "She was interviewed on episode six of your bloody show. She dyes her hair, and it's _not_ her colour."

"Oh my god," John breathed. "You're such an idiot."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he were trying to decide if John was having him on. John solved the dilemma for him by stepping into his space and sliding one hand up around the back of Sherlock's neck. He went up on his toes, steadying himself with his other hand on Sherlock's chest, and pressed their lips together.

Instantly Sherlock's arms came up and around him, and John found himself crushed against Sherlock's body. Sherlock kissed like he'd never heard of foreplay, and the deep, dirty thrust of his tongue made John moan in surprise. John slid his hand up into Sherlock's curls and held on, relishing Sherlock's answering groan. Sherlock's hands spread out across his back, one between his shoulder blades and the other broad across the small of his back; he held John to him and kissed him until he was breathless. He tasted like smoked mushrooms, and the smell of the kitchen downstairs had been replaced by the more delicate scent of his shampoo and aftershave. John wanted to devour him. He dug his fingers deeper into Sherlock's hair, drawing another moan from him, and fisted his other hand in Sherlock's button-down shirt. He'd seen Sherlock change once from the dress shirt into his chef coat, and the sight of the skin-tight white T-shirt he'd had on underneath had been torture of the best variety. John wanted to see it again.

Sherlock didn't give him a chance to voice this desire, however, as he backed John across the room and pinned him against the wall. He ate at John's mouth, licking and nipping, his hands roving over John's body. He pushed John's jumper up and dragged John's shirt out of his jeans, his palms warm and demanding on John's skin. John felt the heavy throb of blood between his legs and spread them instinctively. Sherlock shoved a thigh into the space immediately, grinding his hip against John's groin and pushing John up on his toes again. Their teeth clicked together, and Sherlock pulled back to stare into John's face.

John stared back. Sherlock's cheeks were red with a hectic flush, his eyes as wild as his hair. His lips were plump and wet, and he breathed heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring. John framed his face with both hands, curling his fingers behind Sherlock's ears, and pulled him in for another deep kiss. Sherlock moaned, deep and desperate, pushing John harder against the wall.

Sherlock broke the kiss again, sucking in a breath, and turned his attention to savaging John's neck. He bit at John's pulse, fumbling with one hand at John's top shirt button, and then yanked the fabric aside to bite down, hard, on John's collarbone.

John yelped and yanked Sherlock back by his hair. Sherlock gasped, pushing his cock against John's hip.

"Easy," John said. "You leave a mark, people will talk."

"People do little else," Sherlock said, rubbing himself now firmly into the groove of John's thigh. His prick was long and rigid, trapped down the leg of his trousers. John kept one hand in Sherlock's hair— he'd discovered a method of control and he wasn't going to give that up— and slid the other between them to feel that length for himself. Sherlock shuddered at the touch, head dipping, so John took advantage of the closed distance and kissed him. Sherlock groaned again, hips stuttering. He had moulded himself against John's body from knee to shoulder, holding John firmly in place even as John rubbed at him between them. John's wrist ached already, but Sherlock was making the most delicious, desperate noises into his mouth that he couldn't bear to stop.

Sherlock stopped for him, pulling away with effort and sliding to his knees. He pushed his face into John's belly, nuzzling hard, his hands like iron bands around John's thighs. John's hand was still in his hair, and John used it to push Sherlock's head down until Sherlock's cheek was against his groin. Sherlock's moan was muffled.

John was lightheaded. This was not quite how he'd pictured this encounter going. Then again, he shouldn't have been quite so surprised. Sherlock might chafe against authority, but he'd already admitted John was an exception. John was going to have to be careful not to abuse the power. Not that he was _particularly_ worried about how Sherlock would react at the moment, with Sherlock between his knees, mouthing at John's erection through his jeans. He gave Sherlock's curls a stroke, dragging his fingertips against Sherlock's scalp and re-settling his grip. Sherlock's sigh penetrated through the layers of his jeans and pants, heating his skin. He tipped his head back against the door, breathless.

Sherlock let go of John's thighs to push one hand up under his jumper and shirt again, and with the other worked to unfasten John's belt. His fingers were quick and deft, warm against John's skin, and soon he had the belt jangling loose and John's button and zip undone. John's cock strained against his pants, making it difficult for Sherlock to get his hand inside, but Sherlock persevered. He mouthed at the softness of John's belly, biting gently below John's navel, while he wrestled with John's pants. John should be helping him, he thought—maybe push off the wall and loosen his jeans, or push them down altogether—but he was enjoying Sherlock's scramble.

Finally his prick was out in the air, rigid and pointing unashamedly at Sherlock's face. Unceremoniously, Sherlock licked the tip, making John jolt and gasp, and then buried his nose in the thick curls of hair that surrounded its base. He stroked John's cock from root to tip, encircling it completely in his big hand, and his tongue flickered against the root.

John muttered, "Christ, Sherlock," pushing both hands into his hair, and Sherlock moaned. His other hand, temporarily unoccupied, gripped John's thigh again. John felt him sink lower on the floor, knees apart, and wondered if he could rub himself off against the pressure of his own trousers. The thought made him weak, knees trembling, but he hoped to God Sherlock would hold off long enough for John to get a hand on him.

Sherlock pulled back, breathing hard, and glanced up at John. It wasn't a coy glance; he wasn't checking to see if John was watching. In fact, when John met his eyes, Sherlock flushed more deeply and busied himself with the task of sucking John's brain out through his dick. His lips parted and he engulfed John. John gasped at the incredible hot, wet sensation of Sherlock's mouth sinking down around him, and his hips jerked against his own volition. Sherlock didn't flinch, just took the extra inch of John's prick with grace, and John fell back, panting, "Sorry, sorry," even though he could tell Sherlock didn't mind.

Indeed, Sherlock only pushed harder, easing John's cock to the back of his throat. He held for a beat while John shuddered, and then pulled away slowly, lips dragging up John's length. He repeated the trick a few times, moving like molasses.

John looked down again, entranced by the movement of Sherlock's hair across his forehead, the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slick drag of his mouth. Sherlock's tongue came out and licked at his fully exposed head, gentle as anything. He tongued at John's slit, licking away the fluid that gathered there in John's arousal, and John watched his expression flicker into bliss. He raked Sherlock's hair away from his face, blunt fingernails dragging, and felt Sherlock moan as much as he heard it.

Sherlock's hands wandered, pressing against John's belly and hip, pushing his clothes aside; slipping in at the slit of his pants to cup and fondle his bollocks; wrapping two long fingers around the base of his cock and stroking while he sucked. John found himself spreading his legs wider, accommodating Sherlock's broad shoulders, and the stronger stance on the floor made him desperate to thrust. Sherlock felt it in the trembling of his hips, the way his buttocks had tightened, and nodded, giving John's hip a tug. John's breath exploded out of him, and he pushed against Sherlock's face, driving his cock deep. Sherlock went still, shoulders hunched and knees spread, holding onto John as John plunged in and out of his mouth.

"God, that's bloody gorgeous," John said, his thrusts rolling slow and steady, pleasure thudding up his spine. He drew back until he had almost left Sherlock's mouth, the length of his prick wet and gleaming with Sherlock's saliva, and then slid easily back into the pit of Sherlock's throat. He couldn't help starting to speed up, rocking faster and faster, until his cock was like a piston and the need to come was gathering deep in his gut. Again, Sherlock sensed his growing need; he was awfully well attuned to John's body. He pushed John back against the wall again, taking over with his hand, and began to jerk John off hard and fast. He pulled his mouth off altogether, wiping his wet face on John's pants at his hip, and stroked him while he caught his breath. John stroked his hair, hands roaming over his scalp and down his neck, rubbing his shoulders beneath his shirt, and it was only a matter of moments before Sherlock, apparently recovered, had fit his lips around John's cock head once again. He matched his hand and mouth, stroking John off while he sucked him, and wriggled his other hand into John's pants again to press John's tightening bollocks against the root of his prick.

John gasped, "Fuck, Sherlock— I'm—"

Sherlock nodded quickly in understanding.

"I'm going to come," John elaborated, unnecessary, unable to help himself. He could feel himself stiffening, hips rising. He sucked in a breath, trying to prolong the pleasure, but it was over when Sherlock moaned in response, encouraging him. John's orgasm felt like it started in his spine, pushing him forward, deep into Sherlock's mouth, and he groaned aloud as he spurted. He could feel Sherlock's wet fingers around the base of his cock, pressed against Sherlock's tight lips, and the tension all through Sherlock's body. Sherlock held his breath as John filled his mouth. John's head thumped back against the wall, hips jerking as he pulsed, and he cradled Sherlock's head tenderly, gasping at the ceiling.

He fell back again, still shuddering, and Sherlock pulled away enough to swallow, then licked the last sluggish pulses from John's slit as they spilled out. John couldn't catch his breath. His legs trembled. He dragged Sherlock to his feet and kissed him, even before Sherlock had the chance to wipe his mouth again, and Sherlock groaned in desperation as John licked the taste of himself off Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock's cock felt huge where he rubbed it shamelessly against John's hip, and John worked his hand between them again to get it out.

Sherlock leaned back to help, pulling his own shirt and T-shirt out of his trousers and opening them up. His cock sprang out, ruddy and leaking, and John had it in his hand in a moment. Sherlock sobbed, humping John's fist; John grabbed him by the hair again and kissed him, muffling Sherlock's moan. Sherlock responded clumsily, beyond coordination, so John just licked at his mouth while he jerked Sherlock off, hard and fast. Sherlock was close, trembling all over. Sucking John's dick had done this to him, John thought, riding a full-body shudder of delight. Sherlock groaned again, higher and tighter, and he broke John's kiss to press his face into John's neck. John gasped for breath over his shoulder. Sherlock bit him again, gentler this time, more aimless and desperate, and John felt him swell in his hand. He squeezed Sherlock's arse with his other hand, praying his jumper was out of the way, and Sherlock went stiff all over. His prick twitched; John felt the hot, wet spill of come over his hand. Sherlock whimpered, face still hidden as John pulled the orgasm out of him, and finally went limp, elbows collapsing, pressing John warmly to the wall.

John nuzzled into his hair, breathing in the salt-and-smoke smell of him. Sherlock panted, clinging to John. His prick softened slowly in John's sticky hand, and if they weren't careful they were going to end up glued together in unpleasant ways.

"Sherlock," John said, nudging Sherlock's head up with his shoulder.

Sherlock lifted his face and stared into John's eyes. His pupils were still huge, and his lips were red, his mouth well used. His hair was a wreck. He pushed off the wall and stepped back— staggered, really— and looked down at himself in surprise. As if he hadn't expected this to be the result. He tucked himself clumsily back into his trousers and did them up.

"I'm just going to, um," John said. "Do you want—?"

"No," Sherlock said, "I'm— I'm fine. Are you staying here tonight?"

John's stomach did a weird flip. "If— if you like—" His legs were tingling.

"I think you left some track bottoms upstairs," Sherlock said, finally dragging his eyes away from John. He brushed his hands together, apparently remembered where they'd been, and went unsteadily into the kitchen. Invisible around the corner, he turned the sink on and let it run.

John recognised a dismissal when he heard it. He pulled his clothes back into alignment and said, "Right, okay. See you in the morning, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. His voice sounded strange; distant. "I'll be here. Obviously."

"Right," John said again, and went upstairs.

He was numb all over as stripped down and got into the shower. He'd only meant to wipe himself clean, belly and hands, but now he needed a full rinse. Something had gone wrong. He thought he'd been clear. He wanted Sherlock, and the reaction Sherlock had had to that news, he'd _thought_ , had meant Sherlock wanted him too. Sherlock had too much going on in his mind, John decided. He'd been overworking himself, and wasn't terribly good with surprises. He'd be fine after a night's sleep. They both would.

John woke up in a bed that felt more familiar than it ought. The morning sun slanted across the floor, and he listened to a minute to the traffic on Baker Street. He remembered perfectly what had happened. His body was heavy and languid, satisfied, but his mind was filled with dismay. He shouldn't have done it. But Sherlock needed to be told! But Sherlock hadn't handled it well. Well, he'd handled it well _during_ , but not after. No, maybe it was fine. He could hear Sherlock moving around downstairs.

He got up, changed out of the track bottoms he had indeed left— and intended to leave again— and back into the clothes he'd been wearing the day before. This was becoming a pattern. He went to the toilet, patted down his hair with wet fingers, and steeled himself at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, wearing a long silk dressing gown over his T-shirt and pyjama pants, drinking a cup of coffee and staring unseeing at the morning _Guardian._ When John stepped into the room, he looked up in surprise.

"John," he said, as if he'd forgotten that John had even come back the night before.

"Morning," John said warily.

"Glad you're up," Sherlock said, putting his cup down a little too roughly and sloshing coffee over the rim. "Busy day today, lots to do." He got up from the table and retreated down the hallway that led to his bedroom. John opened his mouth to protest, or to demand an explanation, but Sherlock had vanished before he could say anything. A moment later, the shower started up.

Nausea percolated in John's stomach. Sherlock was not fine. What had happened was _not_ fine. He looked around the flat, as if for evidence of the night before. There wasn't any, except for his coat still hanging up behind the door.

There was enough coffee in the pot for a second cup, so John helped himself. He listened to the sound of the shower running, the creak of the pipes in the walls, and the noise of the world outside the flat. He wandered to the front window and looked down at the street: the bustling thoroughfare, the trees of Regent's Park, the occasional pedestrian slowing for a peek through the papered-over windows of 221.

The shower shut off, and John heard Sherlock move from the washroom to the bedroom and bang around in there for a bit. When Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, impeccable in a slim-cut navy suit and stark white shirt, buttoning the cuff of his shirt, he stopped dead at the sight of John at the window.

"You're still here," he said.

"Ye-es," John said. "There was coffee, and you just said there was a lot to do today. Twenty minutes ago, that was you, wasn't it?"

Sherlock nodded sharply and stepped into the sitting room. He was barely ten feet from John, and yet John got the sense that he was quite a bit further away. His posture was aggressive, his shoulders back and his chin up, and John felt suddenly awkward to be standing by the window with his cup of coffee as if he belonged there.

"Sherlock," he said.

"Last night was a mistake," Sherlock said.

"I was about to say that," John agreed, though he didn't agree in the slightest. Except that he did. Now. "We, er, we were rather caught up in the moment, I suppose."

"Rather," Sherlock said. He fiddled with his shirt cuffs, rubbed the back of his neck, and then put his hands on his hips. "Our professional relationship is far more important than any kind of entanglement," he said firmly. "The restaurant comes first."

"That was just sex, Sherlock," John said. "It was excellent sex, but it was just sex."

Sherlock nodded once. So he agreed it _had been_ excellent sex.

John soldiered on, mentally scolding himself. "But I agree. The restaurant is important to me, and it is my priority."

"Good," Sherlock said.

"I'm, er. The cooks will be here in half an hour. I'm going to go back to mine and change into, er…." Something that didn't smell like Sherlock. "Something clean." He put the mug down on the table by the window. "I'll be back in two hours."

He walked out without waiting for Sherlock's response. The walk to the Tube station was bleak and cold, and the station itself was packed. Saturday morning wasn't a commuter morning, but the temperature forced every pedestrian on the street into the sanctuary of the Underground, and so John rode home to his flat in an unnaturally full carriage.

The flat was chilly and bland, and John hurried to turn on the shower and heat up the bathroom before he undressed. He stared at his unoccupied bed, his characterless furniture, his limp blinds. This place was shit. At least at Baker Street, there was noise and life and no commute. And Sherlock. He wondered if he had taken Mrs Hudson up on her offer of the upstairs bedroom right away, whether they'd have slept together at all. Probably. Probably sooner than they had, really.

No, he thought, getting into the shower. That was ridiculous. He didn't want to live where he worked, especially after the fire, and he shouldn't even consider sharing close space with Sherlock. Not after— well, everything they'd done last night, and everything they'd told each other this morning. That was shit, too, John decided. He'd been lying, and Sherlock had probably been lying, but John could only know for sure about one of them. If Sherlock wanted to prioritise the restaurant, John would respect that, as long as Sherlock's jealous streak had been satisfied. John wasn't going to stray.

When he got back to the restaurant, Sherlock was in the kitchen with the new sous chefs, showing them how to use the centrifuge. He was looking appropriately immaculate and imposing in his full uniform: the white tailored coat with his name embroidered on the chest, black cotton trousers whose looseness disguised the perfect shape of his arse, sturdy slip-proof boots. He looked up as John came in, his face stern and unreadable.

"You do know we're having _photographs_ taken today, John," he said.

John looked down at himself. He'd actually thought this outfit through: clean jeans, a camel-coloured cardigan over a checkered button-down, and his good leather boots. "Yes," he replied, meeting Sherlock's eye and daring him to make a fuss about it.

"Fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenward. "It'll have to do. Lestrade will be here in twenty minutes."

"Who's he bringing, anyway?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, turning back to the centrifuge. "He said he had a connection and I stopped listening. Someone from the _Guardian_."

"Right," John said. "So what are this lot going to do in the meantime? Good morning, everyone, by the way."

He got a muted chorus of greetings in return.

Sherlock said, "I'm going to start them on the shellfish bisque, and they'll look busy in the background."

John made a noise of approval, impressed that Sherlock had come up with something after all.

"Why, what do you think?"

"No, that's good," John said. "I'm just glad you have a plan for them."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, perhaps trying to decide if John was being facetious or not, and then said, "Good. Yes." He looked at his watch. "Right, I'll just have Dimmock and Hopkins on shelling, and Bradstreet, if you and Gregson just want to start chopping the carrots and onions. Forbes, I want you on dairy. The recipe is just there on the counter. Off you go. Lunch for eight."

As the cooks began to move around the kitchen, John heard the restaurant door unlock and open, and Lestrade's voice float in.

"We're just a wee bit early!" Greg called. "Everybody decent?"

Through the window in the wall, John could see the reviewer as he came in behind Lestrade: a small, dark-haired man in a dark suit. His photographer in his wake was bigger, almost burly, and fair-haired, carrying a load of equipment.

Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose and went rigid, standing up straight and stiff. John glanced at him. Nerves? His face was like stone and he looked about three inches taller. Had to be nerves. The last time Sherlock had been named in a food review, it had been mixed chastisement and praise. This first interview for the new restaurant meant a lot to him.

Pushing aside his concern, John shouldered through the swinging door and crossed the floor to meet the reviewer. He had seen his photograph before, but couldn't remember his name.

"Jim Moriarty," the reviewer said with a smile, taking John's outstretched hand in a chilly grip. "Hi."


	7. Chapter 7

"John Watson. Thank you for coming."

"So good to meet you, Mr Watson," Jim Moriarty said, letting go of John's hand and taking a look around the unfinished dining room.

"Chef," Sherlock said from behind John. John jumped. He hadn't heard Sherlock come through the door.

Jim smiled, nearly apologetic. "Chef Watson, that's right, of course, I'm so sorry. Do you mind if we begin right away? Chef Watson, how long have you and _Chef_ Holmes been in… a partnership together?"

"A little over a month," John said, glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't return the look: he was glaring at the reviewer, and the malice in his eyes said _personal_. Sherlock knew Jim Moriarty. He'd had some kind of run in with him before. Had Moriarty given Sherlock a bad review in the past? The photographer snapped a photograph unexpectedly; John blinked in the flash.

"And, Sherlock," Jim went on, "you must be so proud to finally have found someone who will put up with you, is that right?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, saying nothing.

"Er," John said, "what we're really proud of is how smoothly the whole process has been, putting the restaurant together. We were really lucky to find such a perfect spot that was available—"

"Bit off the beaten track, though, isn't it?"

"Well, maybe, but the space is ideal," John said. "The building is deeper than it looks from the front, and we've got plenty of space for a really state-of-the-art kitchen."

"Give us a tour, eh?" Jim said, smiling shark-like at Sherlock.

"Sure," John said, nudging Sherlock out of the way gently with a hand on his hip, only realising what he'd done when Sherlock shied away from the touch and turned his back on the reviewer.

John showed Jim and the photographer, Sebastian, around the kitchen, dodging the sous-chefs who were now opening and liquefying shellfish and cryo-freezing root vegetables. He pointed out the more unique equipment: the emulsifier, the homogenizer, the centrifuge and rotary evaporator Sherlock loved so much. He'd been talking solo for about ten minutes, explaining the uses of each machine as best he understood them, before he realised Sherlock had vanished. He should be here showing off for the reviewers, giving them more information than John ever could about his plans, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Excuse me, just a minute," he said, signalling Lestrade, who stepped smoothly in to suggest a few things Sebastian might want to take pictures of as the sous-chefs worked. John headed for the office on a hunch.

"What's going on?" he asked, closing the door behind him. Sherlock was sitting on the desk with his laptop on his knees and his feet on the chair, glaring at a spreadsheet of liquid nitrogen calculations. "You know him, don't you?"

"Why didn't you tell me _Jim Moriarty_ was the one coming today?" Sherlock demanded. The acidic emphasis he put on Moriarty's name could have burned a hole through the desk.

"I didn't know!" John said. "You were the one who deleted that information."

"Damn it," Sherlock said, cracking his pen down on the desk. "I'm not doing the interview."

"Ah, I think you are."

Sherlock bared his teeth. "He's going to sabotage it," he said. "He's not here for a story about a new restaurant, he's here for a malicious piece about _me_ and what the hell I've done with myself since….” He stopped.

"And what's that, exactly?" John asked. He rested his hands on the back of the chair, and the insides of his elbows almost brushed Sherlock's knees. "Gotten out of a couple of rotten jobs that didn't want you or your wild ideas? Taken up with a dashing, down-on-his-luck restaurateur who's going to make something of you?" He wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock's arm, brush his hair off his forehead, do something to soothe the look of sick displeasure from his face.

Sherlock's smile, though genuine, looked painful. He shook his head, then slapped the laptop closed and put it aside. "Lay on, Macduff, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Consider me warned," John said. A kiss would have suited him nicely, too, but that was definitely out of the question. He stood up and opened the office door to lead Sherlock out.

Moriarty was waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the prep table in the middle of the room with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the office door. Lestrade and Sebastian were nowhere to be seen, but John could hear Lestrade's voice out in the dining room, offering to arrange something for a photograph. The cooks had also disappeared, perhaps sensing that something was wrong and deciding wisely to get out of the way.

"Through pitching a fit, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked sweetly. "You're so lucky to have _Chef Watson_ here to keep you in line."

John rested one hip against the deep fryer. "You two know each other from school, I'm guessing?"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"We were at Ferrandi together," Jim acknowledged. "Took the same Regional Cuisine course, didn't we, Sherlock?"

"Everyone took the same Regional Cuisine course," Sherlock growled.

"I've seen Sherlock in all weathers," Jim said. "At his lows, and at his highs." He was smiling still, but only with the lower half of his face. His eyes were cold. "I'm just so impressed to see you finally so successful, Sherlock. So… _clean._ "

He was hinting at something, John decided. Sherlock's quickly reddening face confirmed it. John disliked it, whatever it was.

"So did you want to get on with the interview, then?" he asked. "Or did you get what you came for?"

"Oh, yes," Moriarty said, and took out his tape recorder. Sebastian and Lestrade returned at that moment, Lestrade looking a little put-out. Sebastian sidled up to Moriarty and murmured something in his ear. Moriarty nodded, rolling his eyes.

"Let's get a few pictures of you," Sebastian said, hefting the camera as if they hadn't noticed it.

"Where do you want us?" John asked.

"John, put on a coat," Sherlock said. "We'll stand by the emulsifier with the pot rack behind us."

Sebastian made a noise of assent, so John went to shuck his button-down and put on a clean uniform coat over his T-shirt, and tied an apron on to disguise the fact that he was just in his jeans. When he came back, Sherlock was as far from Moriarty as he could get without actually leaving the kitchen. John went to stand beside him and felt him relax marginally. They looked good, he thought, in their matching coats under the kitchen lights.

Sherlock was standing with his arms crossed, so John crossed his as well, and Sebastian arranged them standing almost back to back, with John's shoulder in front of Sherlock's. He crouched low and took a few shots from there, and then a few more straight on while Moriarty smirked behind him. Then he made John put his hands on his hips, and took a few more. They did some nonsense with some kitchen props, holding them menacingly, and then Sherlock reached the end of his tether.

"This is ridiculous," he said, tossing the whisk down. "We're done."

"But I haven't asked you any questions yet," Moriarty said. He slid off the prep table where he'd been sitting and fastidiously straightened the lines of his suit.

"Well, ask them," Sherlock snapped. "Five minutes."

"What's it like to work with the most hated chef in the UK?" Moriarty asked John.

"He's brilliant," John said through his teeth, "and I'm honoured to have him as a partner."

Moriarty sneered. To Sherlock, he said, "How does it feel to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find someone who'll work with you?"

"John's a talented chef and a shrewd businessman," Sherlock said.

"After your restaurant caught on fire as a result of your alcoholic sister's negligence, don't you think you should be more cautious about your investments?"

"I stand by my decisions," John said, "and don't you ever mention my sister again."

"Was it the cocaine that made it impossible for you to keep a job, or was that the withdrawal?"

Sherlock went white. "Get out," he said. His hands had clenched into fists at his sides, and he was vibrating with rage. He pulled himself up to his full height so that he towered over Moriarty, and even John felt the urge to take a step back. "Get __out__."

Moriarty and Sebastian beat a quick retreat, with Lestrade at their heels like a guard dog. Sherlock growled in anger, and turned suddenly, sweeping the trays, the glass bowls, the oysters, and an entire knife block off the table. Everything hit the floor with a ringing, rattling crash, and John grabbed Sherlock by the back of the shirt.

"Oi!" he thundered, and Sherlock struggled out of his grip. John let go. "You can be mad as you like," he said, "but don't treat my nice glassware like that."

"I bought that glassware," Sherlock said, wheeling around and taking a threatening step towards him. "There wouldn't be glassware to break without me."

John stood his ground and looked up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock's lips were shaking, and his eyes were wild. "I said, don't treat it like that," he said, lowering his voice. "You want to break something, you take it outside."

Sherlock bared his teeth, his nostrils flaring, but John glared right back. After a moment, Sherlock deflated a little. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and was out the back door before John could blink.

"Jesus," John said to the empty kitchen. Then he remembered there were supposed to be other people in the building. "Dimmock!" he yelled. "Bradstreet! You lot! Where the fuck did you go?"

The cooks appeared in the dining room doorway, sheepish, the lot of them.

"Sorry, Chef," Dimmock said. "We didn't want to get in the way of—"

"Shut up," John said, "it's fine. Gregson, bring me a dustpan and broom. Bradstreet, pick up anything you can find that isn't shattered glass, and for God's sake don't cut yourself."

Bradstreet collected the wooden platters and the knives, while Gregson hunted for a broom. She brought it back, and John set her to sweeping up the glass and the ruined oysters. 

Lestrade came back into the kitchen. "They're gone," he said. "That prick tried to get me to give him a sound byte to use, but I told him where he could shove it."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That was probably his sound byte, then," he said. "Well, we'll deal with it. Sherlock kept his temper long enough, I think."

Lestrade was still looking at him, considering. "Aren't you going to ask—?" he started.

John shook his head, cutting Lestrade off, but couldn't find it in him to say _No,_ altogether.

Sherlock returned ten minutes later, pink-cheeked and smelling like cigarettes.

"Those things will kill you," John said to him when he ducked back in through the kitchen door and sidled up to the prep table where John was standing. Toni and Paul kept their heads down, focused on the prep they were doing. The oysters were a loss, so John had them shelling peas just for something to do. "You should probably quit."

Sherlock shrugged. "I did," he said. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, where they were prickled with gooseflesh, and sighed deeply through his nose. "John—"

"Listen," John said, "I was thinking, if you do that thing with the pea butter at the beginning of the meal, are we going to be left with loads and loads of pea byproduct, or are you going to do something with it later?"

Frowning slightly, Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said, "I've got a pea stew in mind, with beetroot and ricotta. We can serve it after the chicken skin, but before the beef, as a palate cleanser."

"Brilliant," John said. After a moment, he went on, "He's got a grudge against you, hasn't he?"

"Very observant of you," Sherlock said.

John slanted him a look.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock said. "We were at Ferrandi together, and now I'm a Head Chef and he's a restaurant reviewer. Even _you_ can make that leap of logic."

"I have made it," John said. 

"He'll write us a nasty review and we won't get a soul in here after opening night," Sherlock said, pressing his palms flat to the prep table.

"Definitely the former," John said, as Sherlock pushed off and began to pace in a little loop that took him as far as the first refrigerator and back. "The latter probably not. Anyone will be able to tell it's a grudge piece, not a proper review. Anyway, we'll fill the place with reviewers when we open, and their praise will drown out the voice of one piece of petty nonsense."

"Can we rely on that?"

"Of course we can! He hasn't even tasted anything we're going to serve. No one who comes in here will be able to deny what they're eating is fantastic. I don't care what they say about the decor or the lighting or the service; the food will be impeccable, and that's what we'll bank on."

Sherlock flashed John a smile, small and grateful.

"But we will need a __bit__ of good service," John said. "So that they actually get this amazing food on their tables."

"Don't be sarcastic," Sherlock snapped.

"I'm not!"

"John—"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at him. Then abruptly he turned his attention on the cooks, who were listening intently to the conversation while trying to appear uninterested. "Are any of you __actually__ trained professionals, or are you practicing to be gossip mongers when you grow up?"

"Sorry, Chef," they muttered.

"Will you be teaching them that smoking technique you were doing last night to the mushrooms?" John asked. He flushed suddenly, remembering what happened after the mushrooms had been interrupted. He recovered himself. "That kind of showmanship is just what you're going for, isn't it?"

"It's gaudy," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "It's going to ruin the surprise when we do it for a dozen tables at once. No—" as John opened his mouth to protest, "people __do__ watch one another's tables, especially with an intention such as ours. They'll want to know what's coming next."

"This is why I don't think your idea of a set menu is going to work," John said.

Sherlock shushed him. "Not in front of the sous-chefs," he said.

John wasn't sure if he was joking. "All right," he said, "we can talk about it later." He looked around the kitchen, trying to remember if there were something else they were supposed to be doing.

"If that bastard thinks he can come into my restaurant," Sherlock said, his eyes going wild again, "and talk to me like that, he has another thing coming. I'd like to see that irresponsible fool run a staff with a full dining room."

John fought a smile. "You cannot get into a grudge match with a reviewer," he said.

"He's a __fraud__ ," Sherlock growled.

"He's a failure," John said. "That's what he thinks, anyway. He was right, wasn't he? When he said you were successful?" Now or never, Watson. "And clean?"

Sherlock gave John a sharp look and folded his arms. "Yes," he said.

"He was giving you a compliment," John said, "if an underhanded one."

"I'm not going to take it that way," Sherlock said. "I should have him fired."

John grinned. "I'm not sure you can do that, seeing as we don’t employ him."

"Not from __here__ ," Sherlock snarled, "from the __Guardian__. I'm going to call them and tell them what he's done."

"What, come 'round and been a dick to you in front of your partner and your staff? I don't think it'll get you anywhere. He's a restaurant reviewer, not a criminal mastermind." John sighed. "Sherlock, forget it. He'll write what he's going to write, and we'll deal with it when it comes out. It's not life-or-death."

Not yet. Reviews might make or break their first few weeks of business, but they were going to get more than from just Moriarty or the _Guardian._ Sherlock Holmes was too interesting to ignore.

Sherlock's scowl looked entrenched, but after a moment it softened. "Fine," he said. "I suppose you're right."

> ## 221: Fresh Start for Fired Chefs
> 
> James Moriarty, Guardian Reviewer
> 
> Monday 1 March 2010
> 
> 10.00 GMT
> 
> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are an unlikely pair: Watson, the runner-up of ITV's _SuperChef: Doubles_ competition last year, is a well-liked if unimaginative sort of cook, who gained his fame through reliable recipes and his classically British stiff upper lip, as well as the presence of his loose-cannon sister and former business partner, Harry Watson. Holmes, on the other hand, is famous on YouTube for his vicious if amusing verbal assaults on fellow cooks, and his website is filled with assertions that molecular gastronomy, a fad the food business gave up on five years ago, is the way of the future. What brings them together, then? Holmes can't keep a job, and Watson's burned to the ground.
> 
> [221 Baker Street exterior: shabby and out of the way. Photograph: Sebastian Moran for the _Guardian_.]
> 
> Holmes, a classically-trained chef who graduated in 2004 from Ferrandi in Paris, was dismissed from the prominent new Mayfair restaurant Hedonia last autumn after a reportedly loud disagreement with Head Chef Sergio Vitoni over a risotto. His employment record includes several more quick changes over the past few years, mostly as a result of his uncontrollable temper. He does not shy away from this rocky history, and indeed seems to embrace it as the ladder to his current position. If no one will work with him, then what other choice does he have than to strike out on his own? 
> 
> When Holmes and Watson took up together at the end of January, Watson was in a sticky situation. His previous restaurant, the one that got him onto _SuperChef: Doubles_ in the first place, caught fire out of business hours in July of 2008 and closed immediately. Even out of work for eighteen months, it is a surprise that so level-headed a chef like Watson would stoop to an arrangement with a trouble-maker like Holmes. In what they refer to as the "perfect spot," though the northern end of Baker Street is not a glittering centre of high-end restaurants both are used to, they have set up shop at 221 and named the restaurant after the address. Their kitchen, arranged to accommodate all of Holmes's eccentricities and demands for special equipment, is what Watson calls "state of the art."
> 
> [Holmes and Watson in their "state of the art" kitchen. Photograph: Sebastian Moran for the _Guardian_.]
> 
> It would need to be straight out of a sixth form chemistry classroom if Holmes is going to get his way. His fixation on the noughties fad of molecular gastronomy involves more than just the sous vide now familiar to most high end chefs. The kitchen at 221 is packed with machinery Holmes brags is second-hand from Bart's Hospital, including a centrifuge for separating solid particles from liquid, a freeze dryer, and buckets of agar and xantham additives. If you prefer food that tastes like a penicillin experiment, 221 can deliver.
> 
> The menu at 221 is not yet complete, but we have been told that it will involve two tracks of dining options: the first, three prix fixe molecular experiences, six courses each, with an accompanying selection of wines and cocktails that will start you £125 per person; for the rest of us, a standard-issue pick-and-mix of recognisable starters, mains, and desserts, from £9 for a bowl of salad to £29 for a oyster platter. If nothing else, the price will be worth the chance to overhear Holmes's kitchen tirades and maybe film a quick video to add to his several-hours-long YouTube playlist. What Watson will have to offer, except maybe damage control, remains to be seen.

John took the paper out of Sherlock's hands and threw it in the bin.

"John!"

"Stop reading it. You've read it three times this morning."

"It's disgusting. I'm going to have him fired." Sherlock raked his hands through his hair, encouraging chaos in a halo around his head.

"Sherlock, I've told you it won't work."

"I can try."

"It would distract you from the real work we have to do, which is proving that arsehole wrong. Although, honestly, the whole thing is weirdly restrained. He didn't have a go at our personal lives nearly as much as I thought he was going to."

"He probably had it edited out."

"Good. Means the editors have standards. Sherlock, he is _clearly_ jealous that you've even had jobs to be fired from. No one reading this will take it seriously."

Sherlock huffed a sigh and hopped off the hot cupboard he'd been sitting on. "That was good, what you did the other day."

John shook his head in confusion.

"When you said I was brilliant," Sherlock went on, "and that you were honoured."

"Well, you are," John replied, "and I am."

Sherlock swallowed visibly. "You're not the bottom of the barrel, either," he said.

John shrugged. "Even if I am, this is going to work."

"We need to get moving," Sherlock said. "Moriarty was the first one in the door—"

"Which means his review is shite," John said.

"—But he's turned the public's attention on us—"

"Like we wanted."

"—And we need to move quickly. We need to get our menu finished. Did _you_ tell him we were doing two options?"

"No," John said, "but Lestrade must have."

"Damn him," Sherlock muttered. "I don't know why I hired him. He knows perfectly well people won't have a choice—"

"I may have implied to Lestrade that people _will_ have a choice," John said. He crossed his arms to ward off Sherlock's look of indignation. "Sherlock, I've been telling you from the start, a single menu will bring people in once for the novelty, but will not sustain a business. Your pre-fab dinners are going to be amazing, and I cannot wait for people to try them. You are a genius at food." Sherlock blushed and looked away. "But you asked me to come on to turn that genius into a profit, and we are going to need an à la carte menu as well. I've been working on it."

"Behind my back?" Sherlock demanded.

"Anything you rejected as unsuitable for the dinner 'experience,' I put aside as an option. I've thrown in a few things of my own that I know you and the cooks can make, and Molly has been working on her own set of puddings."

Sherlock's mouth thinned into a line. "When were you going to spring this on me?" he asked. "How am I supposed to prepare for twenty dishes if I don't know what they are?"

"As soon as your prix fixes were done!" John said. "But you're taking your sweet time on those, aren't you?"

"They have to be perfect," Sherlock said. "Fine, give me the list of dishes you've chosen and I'll start the cooks to practicing them."

"You already know them," John said. "We've got a month, we'll be fine."

"About that."

John raised an eyebrow.

"I want to be open in three weeks," Sherlock said quickly. "I want to be established by the time Restaurant Week arrives. I don't want us to have our dry run on the busiest week of the year. It's madness."

Blowing out a long breath through his nose, John nodded. "Er, okay. We can make that happen. I think we can make that happen. We need to hire wait staff, and get our website up and running— God, I should get someone just to do that for us, I don't understand that OpenTable thing."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Lestrade has wait staff. He'll bring his best over. Consider that sorted."

"I'll need to call the farms and get my orders advanced," John said.

There was a sharp rap on the outer door. They both turned to look, and Sherlock let out a noise of disappointment.

"Don't let him in."

"Is that your brother again?"

"Yes. John! I said, don't let him in."

John was already at the door, unlocking it.

"Chef Watson," Mycroft said. "I presume my brother— Ah, indeed, he is here."

"Where else would he be?" John asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested but did not commit to innocence, and strode past John into the restaurant.

"It seems to be coming together, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing. He crossed his arms and glared at Mycroft.

"It is," John said. "We're pushing the open date up a week."

"Confident, are we?" Mycroft asked.

"Oh, piss off," Sherlock snorted. "What did you come here for? The food isn't ready yet, you know."

"I read the article Jim Moriarty wrote," Mycroft said, leaning on his umbrella.

"So did I."

"We were both there for the interview, as it happens," John said.

Mycroft didn't look at him. He was staring intently at Sherlock, trying to communicate with him without speaking. John didn't know why he bothered; Sherlock wasn't even interested in a verbal conversation, let alone a telepathic one.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said finally, breaking the silence and letting his arms fall. "John will attest."

Mycroft turned slowly to look at John.

"We're fine," John agreed.

"Good," Mycroft said. "Anyway, I've just come to let you know that Mummy and Daddy are very keen on being invited for your soft open."

"You came all the way here from Whitehall to tell me to invite my own parents to my soft open?"

" _Our_ parents."

"You could have texted."

"You know I don't like to text."

Sherlock sighed deeply, aggrieved. "Good lord, of course they're invited. Tell Mummy—"

"Oh, no." Mycroft put up a hand. "You need to be the one to invite them."

"Fine! They're on the list! I'll send them an email! Get out of my dining room!"

Mycroft went, smirking with satisfaction. He lifted his umbrella to John in a little salute on his way out the door. John locked it behind him.

"Christ, what an infuriating man," Sherlock groused.

"Does he work for the government?"

"He practically is the government. Don't ever try to engage him in conversation on the matter. You'll end up in Yemen." He crossed the room and went behind the bar, taking a top shelf bottle of scotch. He fished out a glass, considered a moment, and pulled out a second one. Thoughtful. Sherlock poured a healthy measure in both of them, despite the fact that it was ten in the morning, and pushed the second glass across the bar towards John.

John accepted it, sliding onto the nearest bar stool. He lifted the glass to consider the liquor inside, then smelled it appreciatively, and took a sip. Sherlock drained his glass without a second glance.

"I haven't just lied to him, have I?" John asked, as Sherlock grimaced at the burn. "You're not… you're all right, aren't you?" Despite Moriarty's pointed remarks in their kitchen, cocaine wasn't exactly an uncommon substance in the food business; the long hours a kitchen demanded, the high levels of stress, the constant litany of 'go faster, do better, push harder.' John had known more than a few chefs over the years who did lines in the toilets to keep their chins up. He'd never liked it, though he'd ignored Harry's alcohol abuse long enough. It wasn't his place, really. Except that Sherlock was his partner, and he felt like he needed to do better by him than he had by Harry.

Sherlock put his empty glass down and was silent for a long time, staring at it. Eventually he said, "I stopped using three years ago. I went— I was in rehab for six months."

"Is that why your brother was checking up on you that first time I met him?" John asked. "He was worried about where the money was going."

Sherlock nodded, leaning down on the bar. He tugged at the snaps on his coat and wrestled it open, exposing his bare throat and the tight T-shirt he wore underneath. The muscles in his forearms bulged; John looked away. "He does fuss so."

"Well, brothers will do that," John admitted. There was another silence. "Look," he said, "I don't care if you used to snort coke—"

“I injected it,” Sherlock said. His fingers found the insides of his elbows. John had never seen his arms above the rolled-up cuff of his shirt; he wondered if he would be able to see the track marks, or if Sherlock had been a careful user.

"I don't care, is the point," he said. "It's not going to change the way I— think about you—" That sounded awkward— "or your cooking—" Slightly better, Watson— "so long as it isn't going to interfere."

" _Mycroft_ might interfere," Sherlock grumbled.

John smiled. "It's fine," he said. "It's all fine."

 

Over the next week or so, Sherlock spent more and more time in the kitchen, working on formulas and perfecting the preparations. John ate a different dish for every meal, tasting and critiquing, while also finishing the licensing, ensuring that 221 was on the list for Restaurant Week, paying the contractors, ordering supplies of every variety from onions to aprons, and trying to think up things to write for the restaurant's blog. He went back to his own flat drop-dead exhausted, resenting every journey and every time he had to leave Sherlock behind. He knew Sherlock was eating, because he was adjusting the recipes until they were just right, but twice John returned to the restaurant to find Sherlock exactly where he'd left him the night before with no indication that he'd been to bed.

"You need to sleep," John told him, ten days before 221 was due to open. "This is unacceptable." The kitchen was busy with cooks working on a risotto and glass potato crisps; the heat and noise were a comfort, like sinking into a hot bath.

"What's unacceptable," Sherlock said, raking a hand through his hair and waving a filleting knife at John, "is how you seem to think that two sous-chefs and two line cooks is going to be enough to staff this kitchen at the peak of dinner service."

John took Sherlock by the elbow, removed the knife from his hand, and guided him to sit down in the office. "You are going to fall down dead," he said, "and then what will your line cooks think of you?"

"They're terrified of me," Sherlock said, scowling.

"And wouldn't you like to keep it that way?" John asked. "Actually, I think they're starting to like you."

Sherlock's scowl deepened.

"They might actually _want_ you in peak form for the opening." He sighed. "I know I do."

Sherlock looked up at him, his teeth dug into his lower lip. His eyes were red with lack of sleep, his face pale and haggard. He reached up and gripped John's shirt at the sides. "It has to be perfect," he said.

" _All_ right," John said, "You should go get some rest."

"I'm not just leaving them to it," Sherlock said. "That's not an option."

"Fine, but in your state you're not fit to be supervising alone." John had been in the flat upstairs, working fruitlessly on the website, with the muffled sounds of the kitchen coming through the ductwork. He'd been a little jealous that Sherlock got to be down in the middle of it. Now he could really enjoy it, and for a good cause, too.

The warming cupboard wasn't being used, so John hitched himself up onto it and sat there, watching the kitchen bustle. His left hand ached to hold a knife. He shouldn't get involved in the middle of the practice session, but maybe when they were done he'd give a few of the recipes a try. Sherlock could go sleep, and John would just amuse himself for a while with the agar.

Hopkins came over to get something out of the upright fridge and gave John a warm smile. "Hallo, Chef," he said. "Having a peek at the goods?"

"Something like that," John said, thumping his heels against the cupboard. Sherlock was looking particularly delectable, even in his unkempt, slightly mad state. Actually, especially when he was a little mad. John had been hooked from the first minute of shaky mobile phone video; the sight of Sherlock verbally tearing a manager apart had been like catnip. He shouldn't be doing that here, and John was glad he hadn't had to experience it directly, but Sherlock in a snit was a tiny bit sexy. "Just want to see how you all are doing," John said. "How everyone's getting along? It looks like it's going well, eh?"

"I think it's going well," Hopkins said. "I've learned so much in the last month. I mean, I went to cooking school and everything— I was at Cordon Bleu, like you— but he's… well he's another level, isn't he?"

John nodded in agreement.

"Hopkins!" Sherlock shouted. "Why've you left a mess at your station?"

"Sorry, Chef," Hopkins said, turning his back on John and hurrying back to his spot at the prep table. "Oh, no!"

There was a clamour, and the smell of smoke filled John's nose.

"What's burning?" he demanded. "Sherlock!"

His throat was closing down. He slid off the warming cupboard and his knees buckled. A rag Hopkins had discarded had been too close to the open flame heating the pot of risotto and had lit. The whole burner was now smoking and the flames leapt at the chance to spread. It was a small fire, the top level of his brain told him, easily managed, but the rest of his mind was already ringing with alarm bells. He tried to step back and collided hard with the cupboard again. He watched in a daze as Gregson went for the fire extinguisher at the back of the kitchen. Sherlock was coming toward him, saying something, but John couldn't hear him over the pounding of his heart.

Sherlock reached him and put a reassuring hand on his bad shoulder. John jerked away, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep in a whimper, and Sherlock let go in surprise. The loud blast of the fire extinguisher broke through the cotton wool in his brain. He turned away, mortified, and banged his hip on the corner of the cupboard. Sherlock said his name again, but John couldn't face him. He was already through the swinging door and into the dining room. 

John reached the service station and sagged, sliding down the wall to sit with his knees up to his chest and his head tucked between them. He covered his head with his arms and breathed slow, measured breaths, feeling his pulse beating crazily in his face and hands. His left arm tingled, ached, his shoulder burned. He squeezed his hand into a fist and relaxed it again, over and over, like Ella said.

"Jesus," he said, to the empty service shelf. "Jesus."

He was still sitting there when Sherlock came through the door a few minutes later. Sherlock almost didn't see him, but when he did he came over and sank down beside him.

"It's out," Sherlock said softly, his knee just touching John's.

"Yeah," John said to his lap. He lifted his head. "Risotto ruined?"

"I don't care about the risotto," Sherlock snapped. "I care—" He cut himself off suddenly and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. John's heart rate picked up again, just when he'd gotten it to slow. Sherlock looked at him, something uncertain in his eyes, and then shook his head. "Yes. The place is covered with extinguisher foam now. Gregson was a little enthusiastic."

"They didn't see me, did they?"

Sherlock made a face. "I think they did." He reached out and touched John's knee with his fingertips, before covering John's kneecap with the whole of his hand. His touch sent a frission of pleasure and warmth through John.

"Fuck."

"It's all right, they know your history."

"Everyone bloody knows my bloody history. I'm never… Christ, I'm never going to cook again if that's what happens when a little rag fire goes up."

Sherlock's hand tightened on John's knee briefly. "You will," he said. "You'll have to fill in for me sometime, I'm sure."

John snorted, thumping his head back against the wall. His stomach still churned. "Me? Fill in for you? I could never fill your shoes. You're a madman and a genius, and I'm just… I'm a washed-up fool who can't stand the smell of smoke. I don't belong in a kitchen. Jesus, Sherlock."

"You belong in _my_ kitchen," Sherlock said firmly. He took his hand off John's knee, leaving a weird cool spot in his wake, and got up. He stood in front of John, nearly toe-to-toe with him, and offered John both of his hands. "Get up. We'll clean up the risotto and send everyone home."

John stared up at him. From this angle he looked about a thousand feet tall, and light shone through the wildness of his hair. His hands and wrists were scarred with old knife cuts and little burns: the marks of a career cook. John swallowed his self-pity and reached up. Sherlock's hands closed around his, warm and strong and steady. Sherlock heaved and John slid up the wall to his feet again.

"Come on," Sherlock said gently. "They won't rib you about it. If they do, I'll can their arses."

"Don't," John said seriously. "We can't afford to lose anyone at this stage. We're lucky we've got four cooks willing to work with you that you can even stand."

Sherlock grinned. "You’re the boss."


	8. Chapter 8

When they had sent everyone home, Sherlock cobbled together what hadn't been ruined by the fire extinguisher into a passable supper and ushered John upstairs. They sat in the arm chairs in the sitting room, opposite one another in comfortable silence.

Sherlock watched John while they ate: the quick, methodical way he consumed his food, accustomed to eating standing up during a break in service, despite his years at a high level of management; the suggestion of grey in his fair hair; the visible appreciation on his face of the flavour and texture; the flex of his fingers around the fork; the quirk of his eyebrow when his eyes met Sherlock's. Sherlock found himself blushing, but he made himself maintain the eye contact until John's face flushed and he looked away. Sherlock had regretted kissing him— sucking him off against the fucking door like they had no self control— but more than that he regretted not kissing him more. He'd panicked, afterwards. The Work came first.

But really, John Watson was the Work.

John took care of Sherlock as much as he took care of setting up the business. He let Sherlock have his way on everything Sherlock thought was truly important, and everything else he was content to overrule or ignore. They opened in just over a week, and Sherlock had known from the start, somehow, that John's hand was the right one to guide them. He trusted John.

He waited until John had set his plate aside, stacked his own on top, and then stepped onto the coffee table and slid into John's lap.

John put his hands up in surprise, leaning back in the chair, and Sherlock settled heavily onto his thighs, linking his hands behind John's neck. He looked down into John's face, watching the way his pupils dilated and his cheeks flushed, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and the flicker of his tongue over his bottom lip. He didn't push Sherlock off, which was the most obvious indicator of his interest in the developing situation.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, his voice low. "For keeping us on track."

"Well," John said, flustered, his hands still hovering, "I wasn't exactly anticipating this reaction, but, er—"

Sherlock said, "You should stay here."

John sighed. "Sherlock, I—"

"It's the most logical solution."

"I don't think you telling me that while you're sitting in my lap is exactly fair," John said, and his hands came to rest on Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock shrugged. He unlinked his fingers and slid one hand up into John's hair. He tugged John toward him; John's lips were already parted when their mouths met. His hands moved across Sherlock's back, embracing him, drawing him closer. The heat of John's palms soaked through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. John kissed with slow deliberation, as sure of this now as Sherlock was. His hair between Sherlock's fingers was soft.

Sherlock remembered John's hands in his hair, pulling with just enough seriousness to make him shiver, and he reacted again now just to the memory. John felt it and pushed his hips up against Sherlock's in return. Sherlock could feel John getting hard under his thigh but there was no extra room in the chair to spread his legs.

John's hands shifted again, smoothing across Sherlock's back, up his spine to the back of his neck, and down to get a handful of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock had discarded his uniform shirt but was still wearing the loose trousers with only his pants underneath. John groaned in appreciation and deepened the kiss, opening his mouth wider, chasing Sherlock's tongue back into his mouth and performing his own thorough exploration.

Sherlock moved to unfasten the button at John's throat, and opened his shirt down to the middle of his sternum. John, in return, slid his hands underneath Sherlock's T-shirt, fingers skating across the bare skin at the gap between Sherlock's shirt and trousers. John had a plain, white crew-neck on under his button-down, and it was stretched deliciously across his pecs. His nipples were stiff beneath the fabric, and he shivered and moaned when Sherlock rubbed his thumb deliberately across one.

Then John's hand was gone from Sherlock's arse, and it closed gently over Sherlock's hand on John's chest. John flattened Sherlock's palm to his body and disengaged gently from their kiss. Sherlock looked down into his eyes, trying to keep his breathing even.

"Sherlock," John said seriously, "do you want to… stay here…? Or… go to bed?"

 _Bed._ Sherlock hadn't planned that far, but his body seemed to like the sound of that idea. He said, "Definitely bed," in a voice he knew would make John quiver, and climbed off John's lap.

John stood up, a little awkwardly, and adjusted himself in his jeans. His cock was straining against the leg of his trousers. Sherlock's own erection stood out unashamedly from his body, constrained only in the most abstract sense by his trousers. John glanced down at it, blushed, and took Sherlock's hand.

"Come on, then," he said, leading Sherlock to his own bedroom.

Sherlock turned on the light at the bedside and closed the door, even though he never had any reason to expect company. It seemed like the right thing to do. It gave the encounter a limit: just the two of them, in his room, alone, together. John finished unbuttoning his top shirt and shrugged out of it. For a moment he looked for a viable place to leave it, and then decided on the floor. It crumpled in a pile of plaid, proof of what they were doing. Sherlock stepped close again, sliding his hands up John's bare arms, pushing his prick against John's belly. The warmth of John’s body bled through his T-shirt.

John kissed him, soft and shallow at first, his sweet, quick mouth opening Sherlock's up, and then once he had Sherlock where he wanted him the kiss turned deep and dirty. Sherlock's knees trembled. He had to hold onto John's arms. John pulled Sherlock to him by his bum, trapping Sherlock's erection between them. He broke the kiss again before Sherlock was ready, but this time he nudged Sherlock's chin up with the point of his nose and began kissing the underside of Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock shivered, his head falling back to give John room; he slid his hands up John's arms, under the sleeves of his shirt, but just as he reached John's shoulders John flinched away, jerking his left arm out of Sherlock's grip. He didn't pull away altogether; instead he hid his face against Sherlock's collarbone and breathed out hard.

"Sorry," he said, against Sherlock's skin. He lifted his head and tried to look Sherlock in the eye, but had to look away a bare second later. He rubbed at his shoulder over the shirt. "Sorry," he said again, "it's fine."

"We don't have to—"

"No, I want to—"

"I mean, I don't have to take your shirt off if you don't want," Sherlock said, "although I'd like very much to."

John bit his lip. "Probably should let you," he said. "Go on, it's just a little stiff."

Sherlock stepped back and pulled his own T-shirt off over his head. Fair was fair. John's eyes tracked down the length of his body, lingering on his nipples, his elbows, the cut of his hips. Sherlock toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks one-by-one. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic waist of his trousers and pulled them away from his body, over his erection, and let them fall to the floor. He shook the fabric off his feet and stood, chin up, hands landing on his waist. John's eyes crinkled as he smiled.

"God, you're fantastic," he said. He unfastened his belt while Sherlock watched, kicked his shoes away, and dropped his jeans to the floor. Sherlock turned him around and nudged him to sit on the edge of the bed. His prick stood up from his lap, making a tent of his briefs as obvious as Sherlock's had been. Sherlock crawled over John's body, pushing John back onto the duvet.

John looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder, lips parted around an exhale. Sherlock braced himself on his hands and leaned down, brushing his nose alongside John's for a moment before he kissed him. John groaned softly, kissing back, tongue flickering into Sherlock's mouth. His hands came up and traced Sherlock's ribs, mapping his waist, caressing his arse and thighs. Sherlock spread his knees and let himself settle astride John's hips, their cocks lining up perfectly. John was so hard, hot through his briefs, and the gentle roll of Sherlock's hips had him moaning aloud into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock rubbed against him more firmly, giving into the urgent demand of his arousal, and cradled John's head in his hands, guiding him into a deeper kiss. Then he pulled back, waited for John to open his eyes again and smile at him, and then dove down to worry at the thin, tender skin of John's throat with his lips and teeth.

John sighed, skimming his hands up Sherlock's back to rest on his shoulder blades, his embrace heavy and comfortable. He slid one hand into Sherlock's hair at the base of his skull, combing through the curls, and Sherlock couldn't stifle the moan of anticipation, even with John's collarbone between his teeth. John chuckled, the sound resonating in his throat, and gave a little tug. Pleasure rippled down Sherlock's spine. He let himself be moved, guided to lave his tongue over John's Adam's apple and along the slope of his shoulder, until he felt John tense underneath him.

He paused and John's hand loosened. His other hand was trembling on Sherlock's back. Sherlock shifted his weight to his elbow and tugged the neck of John's shirt aside. John's breathing was deceptively even.

The scar was bigger than Sherlock could see right away; just the edge of it was visible beneath John's shirt. It was pinker than the rest of John's shoulder, shiny, and it was smooth beneath his tongue. Sherlock traced the edge of it, feeling a shiver run through John's body, and kissed the new skin softly. John breathed in sharply through his nose. Sherlock pushed himself up again, sitting heavily on John's lap, and John let go of him to cross his arms and pull the bottom of his shirt up.

Sherlock slipped his hands underneath to help. Together they freed John of the fabric, mussing his hair as they went. John's left shoulder had a little less range of motion than his right, so Sherlock was gentle. He tossed the shirt away off the bed and turned back to look.

"It's worse on the back," John said, watching his face.

"Three surgeries do leave a mark," Sherlock remarked, running his fingers over the injury. 

"How'd—?"

Sherlock pointed out the incision scars. "Those are the same age," he said, "but the grafts are both slightly younger. I expect I'll find corresponding scars on your thighs. Didn't get a very close look last time." He smirked at John's blush and ducked down to kiss him again, lips dragging against John's. John's tongue brushed his lower lip and John's hand settled again in the middle of his back. Sherlock's heart couldn't beat fast enough for him. "Incredible," he whispered, against John's mouth, "what the human body can endure."

"Yeah," John agreed softly.

Sherlock returned to exploring the scar with his mouth, cataloguing its texture with his tongue, measuring how much pressure John could stand. "Really, it's absolutely amazing. All this repair, and you're not even doing anything."

"To be fair," John said, "I did do quite a lot of that. It is _my_ skin."

Sherlock grinned. "But not by thinking about it," he said. He reached the distal end of the scar, halfway down John's arm where it curled around the back, and switched to John's torso. John's nipple was right there, stiff and peaked. "I'm glad," he said, giving it a little lick.

John started, and he grabbed Sherlock's bicep with his other hand. "Beg pardon?" His indignation was tempered by the breathlessness of his voice.

"I'm a selfish man, John," Sherlock said, lips moving against John's skin. "If it hadn't happened, I'd have never had a chance with you."

"I'm not much of a catch," John said. He curled his fingers in Sherlock's hair once more.

Sherlock lifted his head to look into John's face. "As a business partner or as a lover?"

"As—"

"Either way, I have to disagree."

"Er," John said.

Sherlock winked at him. John sighed deeply, exasperated and amused, and slid both his hands into Sherlock's hair.

"Get on with it," he said.

"Yes, Chef," Sherlock said, bending his head.

It startled a laugh out of John, and Sherlock grinned against his sternum. He moved to lick at John's other nipple for a bit, until John's giggles had dissolved into ragged breathing. John's fingers were tightening in his hair, bit by bit, and his hips were shifting under Sherlock's. His prick rubbed against Sherlock's in all the right ways through their briefs, and soon Sherlock was drawn into the slow grind. He tipped his forehead against John's ribs to catch his breath.

"What do you want?" John asked. Sherlock sat up to consider him. John's hands found Sherlock's hips, thumbs rubbing the points of his iliac crests, and then, almost as though John hadn't realised the option, John's left hand slipped down to circle around Sherlock's erection in his pants.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, hips jerking forward into John's grip. John flashed him a grin, all teeth, and brushed his thumb over the head of Sherlock's prick where it distended the fabric. Sherlock's mouth fell open and his shoulders hunched, all against his will. John's cock was nestled between the cheeks of his arse, the fabric of their briefs a devastating barrier.

"I want you to fuck me like this," Sherlock said, squirming on John's cock and relishing the way John's eyelashes fluttered. 

John nodded quickly. "Yeah," he said, "okay, that sounds… good, that sounds good. Have you got…?"

"Somewhere," Sherlock said. He leaned back and opened the bedside drawer. There was a half-empty bottle of lube in there, stashed away for his personal use, and he tossed it to land beside John's shoulder. John fished it out of the folds of the duvet and opened it. "Get your pants off first, for God's sake," Sherlock said.

"Find us a condom and I will," John said. Sherlock was off his lap in an instant, rummaging in the dresser. There had to be some _somewhere._

John was naked by the time he got back, and he'd moved from the edge of the bed to the middle, his head on Sherlock's pillows. His cock stood up, hard and thick. Sherlock's mouth watered hard; the sense-memory of that cock in his throat sent the rest of the blood in his body rushing south. He was light-headed as he kicked off his own briefs and climbed into bed with John. John welcomed him back with a kiss, pulling Sherlock's legs so that he was straddling John again, but higher up, knees on either side of John's ribs. It meant Sherlock had to curl his spine down to kiss John, but it also meant that John could easily reach when he slipped wet fingers between Sherlock's cheeks.

Sherlock moaned into the kiss at the first, cool touch of John's fingertip against his hole, and felt John smile. John rubbed at the muscle first, not pushing inside, just warming Sherlock up. Sherlock's cock jerked, and a heavy drop of pre-ejaculate landed above John's navel. Sherlock had to pull away from the kiss to pant into John's ear.

"Enough," he hissed, "put your fingers in me."

"Fuck," John muttered, obeying. His middle finger dipped inside Sherlock's body, too shallow, too slim.

"Definitely on the agenda," Sherlock managed.

John pushed his finger deeper, working it in and out. "God, you feel good." He took Sherlock's prick in hand again and stroked him firmly. Sherlock arched, pinned between John's hands, and let the sensations flow through him. 

"Gyah," Sherlock said, as John brushed against his prostate.

He could hear the smile in John's voice when he said, "There, yeah?"

"Mm," Sherlock confirmed. His heart was pounding, his breathing coming short. John did it again, agonisingly slowly, and Sherlock groaned deeply. "Another," he demanded, and it came out shakier than he would have liked.

John obliged, adding his second finger. Sherlock bit down on the meat of his shoulder. His hips rocked restlessly, fucking himself on John's fingers, fucking John's fist. His arse ached, and he needed so much more. John let go of his prick and Sherlock heard him rip the condom wrapper with his teeth and toss it away; a moment later he felt John fumbling between them, and lifted himself up to give him room. John kissed the tip of his ear. Sherlock felt his whole face heat.

John pulled his fingers out and replaced them smoothly with the covered head of his prick. The lube was in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock retrieved it and filled his palm; John moaned at the tight grip of his hand. Two strokes was enough, the lube dripping down the length of John's cock, and Sherlock didn't care what happened to the duvet cover where he gripped it as he sank back. John stayed very still, breathing hard, his hands on Sherlock's hips. His face was ruddy, his hairline damp with sweat, his eyes sparkling with his desire for Sherlock. His cock felt huge, splitting Sherlock open, but once Sherlock's arse met the cup of his hips he fit perfectly.

"Oh," John said, summing up the situation nicely.

Sherlock's cock was twitching. His balls were pulled up tight against his body. The sting of penetration should have dampened his ardour, but the need to have John inside him had overruled that reaction, and now he was almost on the verge of orgasm. He had to regain control of himself. But John seemed to sense his distress and didn't give him a chance to recover; instead he planted his hands on Sherlock's hips and rolled his hips upwards, pushing himself deep. Sherlock yelped— although it was really more of a manly groan— and let his head hang, his mouth fallen open. John beamed up at him.

"All right, there?" John asked. Bloody cheeky. Sherlock nodded. John's hands shifted, pulling apart Sherlock's arse cheeks as he worked his hips, grinding deep into him. Sherlock could see the sensations as they played out across John's face, and John wasn't hiding any of it. It was beautifully intimate, and Sherlock's heart felt like it would escape from his chest. Every movement of John's prick inside him sent shocks of pleasure through him. He lifted himself, giving John more room, and John grunted in approval. His cock stabbed deeper with every thrust; he was starting to pick up speed. Sherlock moved to meet him, rocking on his knees, his cock bouncing in the air between them.

John's head rolled back and his lips parted; he watched Sherlock from beneath his eyelashes, and Sherlock had to kiss him. John met him with fervour, groaning around Sherlock's tongue. His hands tightened on Sherlock's hips, holding him still for a moment to hammer into him, and then releasing him and modulating his rhythm to keep Sherlock on edge.

Sherlock broke the kiss to hide his face in John's shoulder. He bit at the scar, careful of how much pressure John could stand, and John moaned loudly, surprised. Pleasure roiled in Sherlock's body, deep in his pelvis, in the backs of his straining thighs, low in his stomach. He needed more.

"Get on top," he gasped, pulling off John abruptly. John didn't miss a beat, just pushed Sherlock's hip and rolled them both over, almost to the edge of the wide bed. John shoved his thighs up and slotted himself back in neatly, piercing Sherlock to the core. Sherlock's back arched; his hair was sticking, sweat-damp, to his forehead. He braced his hands on the headboard. John took the hint and began to pound into him, hips working hard and fast. Sherlock's prick dripped on his own stomach now. He pushed back into John's thrusts and said, "Harder!"

"Bossy git," John said, fucking him harder.

"It gets— things— done," Sherlock protested. His breathing was ragged. He took one hand off the headboard, risking the force of John's thrusts, and wrapped it around himself, moaning at the rush of pleasure it brought. John licked his lips and spread his knees, dropping his pelvis, which changed the angle his cock was going in. Sherlock cried out, "Yes, John!"

John laughed, squeezing Sherlock's thighs with both hands. "Christ, I'm glad there's no one downstairs to hear you," he said.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, breathless. "Don't want anyone to know?"

"Don't want to _share_ ," John said, and yanked Sherlock down the bed a few inches, to save him from banging his head against the headboard. He slid Sherlock's knees over his shoulders and leaned down on his hands, folding Sherlock nearly in half. It made jerking off more difficult, but it brought John within a reasonable distance to reach up for a kiss, so Sherlock sacrificed one for the other. John slowed his hips, grinding against Sherlock's backside; he swallowed Sherlock's sob. Sherlock writhed, cursing, pushing his dick into the palm of his own hand. John bit Sherlock's lip, a point of delicious pain.

Then he took pity on Sherlock and sat back again, embracing Sherlock's long legs and rising up on his knees to finish him off. Sherlock stroked himself quickly, desperate now, the delayed orgasm rushing back with a vengeance. His cock swelled in his hand, and he grabbed at John's arm, his shoulder, his arse.

"John," he gasped, "I'm— I'm so close—"

"Come on, then," John said, and pushed Sherlock's legs apart, wrapping them around his waist. Sherlock yelled, fingers slip-sliding on John's skin. He could smell John's arousal, his soap, the sharp scent of his aftershave— and felt John's rhythm begin to falter as John approached his own edge. Sherlock needed it, chased it, desperate and hungry and rubbing himself furiously, and then John's fingers found his nipple and squeezed, and he came off like a rocket. The euphoria swept through his body, curling his toes and arching his neck, and he spurted over his fist, come streaking up his belly and ribs. John moaned, riding the clench of Sherlock's body as the orgasm shook him; Sherlock felt him shudder and stiffen, and then John's hips jerked in short, sharp thrusts as he came. His head was down and his shoulders were taut, his mouth open as if in shock. Sherlock kissed him sloppily, still trembling, and John barely responded except to moan deeply.

Then his shoulders relaxed, his hips went still, and he folded down over Sherlock, returning the kiss. They caught their breath together; Sherlock eased his hand out and wiped it on the duvet. Damn thing was probably ruined, not that he cared. John's sweat-damp back was hot under his palm. John nuzzled him as he kissed him, murmuring, and his hands carded through Sherlock's riotous curls. Sherlock's whole body was heavy. John, atop him, was heavier. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him to make sure he stayed put.

"Mm," John said finally, when Sherlock's cock was soft between them and he was overdue to pull out. He reached low to hold onto the condom as he moved away, and Sherlock passed him a tissue to wrap it in. He heard it rustle as it hit the bin. John's hips stayed nestled against his, his curly hair tickling the tender skin of Sherlock's backside, his belly against Sherlock's belly. Sherlock kissed his shoulder, his neck, and his mouth, tasting the difference.

"Stay here," he said, into John's scar.

"Tonight?"

"Stay," he said again. "You can have the bedroom upstairs if you want."

"You kicking me out?"

"I just said _stay_ , John."

John's smile was gentle, and he kissed Sherlock's cheek and eyebrow. "I like this bedroom," he said.

"You'll want your own space," Sherlock said. With John on top of him, he could feel the expanse of his scar with his fingers. John shivered, ticklish, so Sherlock moved on to his vertebrae.

"I'm not agreeing to anything naked," John said.

"Hm," Sherlock said. "Stay here for tonight, then. You're the one who said I should get more sleep."

"I did say that." John disengaged himself and rolled to the side, so Sherlock followed, plastering himself to John's side, arm over his chest, leg over his thigh. John's left hand came to rest in the middle of his back, tracing patterns across his skin. "Under the duvet, maybe?" he suggested.

"Ugh, fine," Sherlock said, but it was a good idea. They readjusted, found the lube and capped it, and Sherlock turned out the nightstand light. The bed smelled like him, but it smelled like John too now; like sex and sweat and company. John's ribs rose and fell under the weight of Sherlock's arm.

He'd convince John to stay. It _was_ the most logical solution.

John woke slowly in the grey dawn; the sun was starting to come in the windows, and they hadn't closed the heavy curtains. The gauzy ones, at least, protected his modesty when he got up to solve the problem. Sherlock's room was chilly, but under the covers Sherlock was warm and sleepy, and he gathered John to him once more when John climbed back in. He mumbled in protestation at the touch of John's cold feet, but his breathing evened out again quickly, and John drifted in the dark.

He woke again with the daylight around the edges of the curtains, and Sherlock on his back beside him, stretched out like a starfish. The heat had come on, so John's trip to the toilet wasn't miserable. He felt silly being naked, even on so short a journey, and pulled his briefs on. Afterwards, he washed his hands, peered at himself in the mirror, and helped himself to one of Sherlock's dressing gowns.

Sherlock had stirred by the time he returned, rolling over into the space John had vacated and turning himself into a burrito inside the duvet. He wasn't exactly snoring, but John could tell by the quality of his exhale that he was deeply asleep. Only the top of his head was really visible, his disorganised mass of curls, and it made John's stomach flip over. He'd seen Sherlock in a lot of ways now, a lot of moods and states, but never quite so vulnerable. He belted the dressing gown and went to make a cup of coffee.

They'd bought a nice espresso machine for the bar downstairs, something with so many spouts and wands and inputs and outlets that John had walked away from Sarah's nephew when he was exclaiming over it. Upstairs, Sherlock had a drip machine that could make eight cups of black filter coffee and nothing more. John poured in enough water for four cups and set it to brew. 

While he waited, John went to the front windows and looked out at Baker Street. It was the same street he saw every day from the restaurant windows, and it wasn't even like this view from the first floor was at all new. He'd spent half a dozen mornings in Sherlock's flat, but he hadn't spent the night previous in Sherlock's bed before.

He ached in all the best ways. His shoulder was sore from holding the weight of his body up over Sherlock's. His knees felt lightly burned from the friction of the sheets. The muscles in his backside and thighs protested when he bent down to pick up a stray piece of paper from the floor. He had a bite mark below his collarbone: small, round, and perfectly identifiable. And there was the all-over sensation of satisfaction, the release of tension that came from nothing else but an orgasm in the presence— in the arse, John's mind supplied helpfully— of another person.

The smell of coffee reached him finally, and he let the curtain drop and turned back to the kitchen. Sherlock appeared at the other doorway, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, and he gave a little start when he saw John wearing the other one. He grinned, soft and amused, as John pushed the sleeves up.

"Bit big," John said.

"Suits you."

"Coffee?"

"God, please," and though John didn't remember him saying _please_ the night before, the timbre was right, and he blushed. Sherlock didn't notice. He leaned on John when John went to pour the coffee into two mugs, sliding his arms around John's waist.

It was unexpected, to say the least, in light of the reaction he'd had the last time they'd had sex. John preferred this one considerably. He tipped his head against Sherlock's in acknowledgement, and Sherlock let him go to fetch milk.

"Is this the part where I make you breakfast?" Sherlock asked, pouring. He sounded casual, almost flippant, but John caught a flash of uncertainty on his face as he put the cap back on.

"Why," John said, "you going to make me breakfast every morning if I move in?"

Sherlock snorted. "No," he said. "I'm a chef, not your mum." He hesitated. "I just thought…"

"I know," John said, taking his coffee into the sitting room. "No, you don't, unless you're making some anyway, in which case make two."

"Eggs all right?"

"I think Mrs Hudson put some bacon in the fridge last time she was here, too. I won't promise you it's still any good."

"Should we do breakfast at 221?"

"No-o-o," John said, turning around in surprise. Sherlock was grinning at him. "Oh, you prat."

"I just slept about twelve hours," Sherlock said, fetching a pot out of the lower cupboard. "I'm capable of practically anything right now."

"Including a delusion about breakfast service. No, those arseholes can wait until lunch. We're not a diner."

"Perish the thought." Sherlock turned on the stove to heat the pot. "If you cook the bacon, we'll be done twice as fast."

John went in to join him and and accepted the proffered pan. "Sherlock," he said, feeling the warmth of Sherlock's body so close to his own. Sherlock's elbow bumped his. There wasn't enough room for both of them to stand there; it had been a ludicrous suggestion. Sherlock was a skilled enough chef that he didn't need help cooking bacon while simultaneously poaching eggs. He could have done both while still asleep.

"Hm," Sherlock said.

"Is this…" In with both feet, John. "Is this a good idea?" He gestured with the package of bacon to the two of them. "Us? With the restaurant and… everything?"

Sherlock was silent for a while, but it wasn't that he hadn't heard or was ignoring John. He pursed his mouth, frowning at the pot of water. John laid the bacon out in strips in the pan and turned on the burner.

"I didn't think so at first," Sherlock said finally, "and for that I apologise. But yes, I… I think it is a good idea."

The tightness in John's chest eased, and he found himself smiling at the bacon as it began to sizzle. "Good," he said. "Me too."

"Are you fucking joking?" Sherlock demanded, three hours later. "Anderson won't work with me!"

Lestrade snatched the list of wait staff he'd managed to convince to come over out of Sherlock's hands. "He volunteered, so he's coming."

Sherlock grabbed the list back. "Sally Donovan, too? You did tell them it was _me_ , right?"

"Oh, no, I forgot to mention," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Listen, Sherlock, you said bring anyone I wanted, and I want them leading my teams. They're the best. It's just for the opening week. If you hate them you can send them packing, but until then I need them. You're not going to serve the food yourself, are you?"

John peered at the list around Sherlock's arm. "I'm sure they'll be fine, Sherlock," he said. "They've chosen to come, haven't they?"

"They'll do anything to get out of catering," Sherlock snorted.

"So, you're not as bad as catering," John said, patting Sherlock on the back. "Take pride in that."

Sherlock glared at him, but John stood his ground and stared placidly back. This was his responsibility. If Sally and Phil caused a scene, John would fire them. If they worked efficiently and Sherlock behaved himself, maybe they could stay. But he wouldn't make the decision until he'd seen them all in motion.

The following afternoon, the entire staff roster assembled in the dining room, from the wait staff to the porters John had hired— Ted Murry wasn't among them, unfortunately, but John had extended an open invitation to him if he ever wanted a change of scenery—to all of the cooks: Andy Dimmock, Stanley Hopkins, Emma Bradstreet, Toni Gregson, and Jonas Forbes. Also present were Molly Hooper and Toby, as well as Sarah Sawyer and Craig. It was a larger crew than John was used to working with, but already he felt like he was on good terms with everyone. They could do this.

"Ladies and gentlemen," John said, "thank you for all your hard work today and over the last few weeks. This may be the only time we are all here at once together, but I hope you have seen and will see enough of one another, and us, that it feels as though we're all a unit.

"As you know, the first soft open is next week. The menu is ostensibly finished, although it may see some final alterations depending on the feedback that we get from guests. The chefs have all been working very hard to learn the dishes, so well done guys on picking up the new techniques. Thank you for your effort. I know Greg will be working with Sally, Philip, and the waiters to get everything sorted on the floor and with the tills and everything, and I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do with real customers in front of you. The first couple of days are going to feel insane, but remember that the soft open is for finding the kinks and working them out, so if something goes wrong please don't panic. We'll figure out a way to fix it, whatever it is.

"Restaurant week is right around the corner, and Sherlock has big plans. We want to come onto the scene full tilt and get people to notice us. It's going to be a lot, but it's going to be worth it. I hope you're all ready to work."

There was a rumble of agreement, most of it enthusiastic. John couldn't say for sure about the agency staff, but they were always lukewarm at best. They hadn't been hired specifically to do this job, anyway, so John didn't blame them. Either they'd come 'round or they'd move on. He had his eye on a few, though, that he hoped he'd be able to convince to stay.

There were only so many dry runs they could do, though. The chefs had practiced every dish Sherlock had come up with. Sarah's bar was stocked and ready with all the booze and gelatine she could need. Molly had made more kinds of desserts in the last two weeks than she'd made in the previous two years, and she'd nailed all of them. She'd even gotten bored and started coming up with free-from ideas: vegan mousse, gluten-free cakes, sans-dairy ice creams. Toby had learned all of her recipes and could be counted on as a replacement for her days off. There was nothing else to be done.

"The soft open will take place only for dinner service and consist entirely of the prix fixe menu," John said. "That will make it easier to really test the cook arrangements under a reasonable amount of pressure. You've all given me your availability for the coming week, which I appreciate; we may have you working with different people over the week to see who meshes best. Sherlock and I will be here every night. Am I missing anything?"

"Do we know who's coming?" Gregson asked. "For the industry night, I mean."

"We've got reservations for about ten reviewers on Wednesday." Sherlock was warily motionless. They hadn't heard from _The Guardian_ this go-round, but John still expected them to send someone. He hoped it wasn't Moriarty. They had three or four other perfectly good reviewers; surely he wouldn't risk a second visit just to antagonise Sherlock? Then again, he might volunteer for such an opportunity. But two reviews from him would just look strange to _Guardian_ readers… John wasn't sure what to think. If Moriarty made an appearance, they would just deal with it, like they'd dealt with everything else so far.

They spent a few more minutes clearing things up and confirming start times, and then John set everyone free. The waiters took off at a breakneck speed, and the cooks left in a pack, already jovial and comfortable with one another. Molly, though, lingered, while Lestrade talked with the waiters, and John watched her out of the corner of his eye while he tidied up the table he'd stacked all of his folders on. When Lestrade finally released his staff, he turned to Molly with a wide smile of welcome and she blushed.

"They've been on at least six dates," Sherlock muttered, facing strategically away from them so they wouldn't know he was talking about them. "They've had several incidents of sexual contact, but no penetration as of yet--

"Sherlock," John said, "while I appreciate that you have an eye for detail and a skill in observation, it is not actually necessary or appropriate for you to relate this kind of information about my employees to me."

Sherlock's lower lip stuck out. "You're the one staring," he said.

"Because I'm pleased for them," John replied, "and a bit nosy, maybe, yes, okay, but not so far as to speculate about whether they've done the deed yet."

Sherlock snorted. "You were wondering."

" _Privately_ ," John said.

"Should we be discouraging this kind of behaviour?" Sherlock asked, turning to look at them over his shoulder.

"What, fraternising with a co-worker? Bit hypocritical, I think," John said, and watched a flush of colour climb up Sherlock's throat. "No: he's not her boss, you are; they won't be working in the same area at the same time, so they won't get distracted; and, they're adults. I think we can trust them to act like it."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smile, and he dipped his head slightly in acquiescence. "Fair enough," he said. "Hungry?"

John nodded. "Starving. Curry?"

"I'm in the mood for Thai, if you're amenable."

"Always," John said.


	9. Chapter 9

John was backstage. The heat of the lights had him right away, and he knew they were on the telly again. Harry was beside him, rocking on her toes in her anxiousness. They were waiting for an assessment. John went over the dish in his mind: the preparations, the sauces, the final product. It felt good. He'd always done well under pressure.

Harry gave a little huff of irritation behind him. "Jesus, are they tearing Mack and Susan a new arsehole out there, or are they on their bloody knees sucking them both off?"

"Harry," John chided, "keep a lid on it."

"Fuck off, Johnny," she said, giving him a shove. There were no cameras on them, and she was getting all her swears out so they didn't have to push the show back to an after-nine slot. "They're taking for-fucking-ever, and I'm going to go mad if we have to wait any longer."

Somehow, John knew it was nearly their turn. He started out onto the stage. The lights were so bright he almost couldn't see the judges table. Harry was behind him, at his heels, jogging to keep up. Mack and Susan were nowhere to be seen.

Seated at the table were four people: Mary Morstan, looking sweet and gorgeous with her short bob and her coral lipstick; Harry and John's mum, Frances; one of John's instructors from culinary school, Chef Bell; and the celebrity guest of the evening, Idris Elba. They were all looking at him with totally unreadable expressions, except John's mum, who was trying very hard not to grin and doing a terrible job at it. She kept waving at him and giving him a thumbs up.

"Well, Harry, John," Mary was saying, "thank you for coming to your review."

"Thank you, Chef," Harry said, which was totally wrong, because Mary wasn't a chef. She was a damn good manager, and she knew her way around a kitchen, but calling her a chef was like calling John a doctor. He'd done some First Aid training, but he wasn't prepared for a real medical emergency.

"Thank you," he managed.

"So," she said, for the benefit of the camera, "you've prepared for us a Middle-Eastern inspired dish of cous-cous and lamb with yoghurt and mint, using this week's surprise ingredient of pistachios as a crumbled topping for the lamb. What made you choose this avenue for the dish?"

"Well," John said, "I spent a semester in Afghanistan during university, and one of the things I took away was an appreciation for the cool days of spring, and for the way they prepare meat. I knew the pistachios would go well with the lamb, and the cous-cous was included to complete the meal without making it too heavy a dish."

"Harry," Mary said, "it sounds like John really had control of this dish; what did you contribute?"

Harry squeezed her hands into fists behind her back, hiding her bitten nails. "The yoghurt and the cous-cous," she said.

Mary didn't look impressed. "Is that all?"

"That was about half the dish," Harry said, "so yeah, if you want to call it that, that was all I did."

"I thought it was just great, Harry," Frances said, entirely out of turn. "John, the lamb was so tender and juicy, and the pistachios gave a nice crunch."

"John, the cous-cous was too dry," Chef Bell said.

"That was Harry," John protested, although he knew better than to talk back to the judge's table. Besides, Harry had done a nice job with the cous-cous; he hadn't thought it was dry at all. What was wrong with him? He shut his mouth. Harry gave him a wounded look.

"But," Chef Bell went on, "I thought the yoghurt sauce was really inspired; the mint in there is so fresh, and—"

"That was Harry too," John said, and Jesus Christ, had he just interrupted Chef Bell? Not only was it rude, and bad form, and _on camera_ , but it was Chef Bell—the man who'd made John certain that culinary school was the right place for him. Chef Bell had taken John under his wing, helped him organise his course load to make sure he got the most out of Le Cordon Bleu's offerings, given him the dressing-down he needed when he was overwhelmed and out of line and thinking of quitting. He'd dragged John into his office one afternoon after John had stormed out of Canapés and Finger Food Buffet Work, and told him in no uncertain terms that if he thought having a temper was an essential part to being a successful chef, he could leave right then. He'd held out his hand for John's hat, and John had clutched the hat to his chest, nearly in tears. Ridiculous, he'd thought at the time, but the hat, somehow, meant everything. He wasn't giving it up. Bell had asked him if he wanted to continue with his diploma, and John admitted he'd never wanted to do anything else.

"That's it, then," Bell had said. "You need your passion, John, but you can't let it control you. If something goes wrong, you fix it, you use your creativity and you solve that problem. Don't draw attention to yourself, John; let the food do that."

Now, under the stage lights, Bell frowned at John. "Well, what did you do?"

"The lamb," John said. "You did taste that, didn't you?"

"Johnny," Frances said, "no need to be rude."

"John," Idris Elba said, "you're not cooking to your full potential. This dish is a good example of that; you have a lot of knowledge, and a lot of inspired ideas, but you're not taking enough risks."

"Sorry," John said, "what do you know about cooking, exactly?"

"Is that important?" Idris asked.

John glanced at Mary for back-up, suddenly uncertain. She was his employee, but she was also the host of _SuperChef_ , and he wasn't sure on which plane they should relate. She'd never been on before, either, so maybe she didn't know her job.

Mary was looking at Harry, her brow pinched with concern. To John, she said, "You need to come back into the restaurant soon."

"I'll try," John said. His arm ached.

"We miss you," Mary said.

John squeezed his left hand into a fist. "I know." His arm was still trembling, the skin tingling and the muscles overtired. His grip was weak. "I'm trying," he said. "I can't stay long." He smelled smoke. "Something's on fire."

"Nothing's on fire, John."

"No, something's definitely burning. Where's Sherlock?" Sherlock was at the flat, doing an experiment, refining a process. They were supposed to take photos of the food for the website tomorrow. He'd wanted to start getting it ready the night before. "I have to warn Sherlock."

"Sherlock's not here," Mary said, and she was standing next to him, holding his hand.

"No, he's—" John pulled away. He could hear the radio now. "He won't notice, he'll be too wrapped up—"

The smoke was choking him now, filling his lungs. His shoulder was burning. "Sherlock!" he shouted.

John jolted awake, drenched in sweat, breathing so hard he could barely get any air. There was a sob caught in his throat, but he held it there, swallowed around it, bit it back. His left hand was numb. When he tried to lift his hands to his face, it refused to cooperate. He struggled to a sitting position and dragged that hand into his lap with the other, prying open his own fingers and bending his elbow to get the blood moving again.

"Fuck," he whispered.

He was in his new bed, the one upstairs at 221B. Sherlock hadn't been anything near tired when John was ready to sleep, so he'd gone up and crawled between his own sheets alone. He still needed to give notice on his bedsit in Bermondsey, but a few of his belongings had started to make their way over. 

There was a knock on the door that made John just about jump out of his skin. A moment later, Sherlock was silhouetted in the opening crack.

"Tea?" he offered, in a whisper.

"What?" John squinted at the clock. "It's half three in the morning."

"Well, I'm having some," Sherlock said, and disappeared. John heard him descending the stairs with considerably less care than he must have ascended them.

John swallowed hard and forced himself out of bed. The floor was cold under his bare feet, and his arm ached as he slipped his jumper over his head. Downstairs, he could hear Sherlock moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, turning on the kettle.

By the time he reached the downstairs hall, Sherlock was in the darkened sitting room, looking out the front windows. The line of his back was impassive and ramrod straight, until he moved and turned to look at John, and everything about him softened. He was silhouetted in the window by the street lights beyond, and John took a step into the sitting room without thinking.

"You were dreaming about the fire," Sherlock said. His violin was sitting on the table, half-placed in its case, like it had been abandoned there in a hurry.

John crossed his arms over his chest and flexed his toes on the carpet. "Yeah," he admitted. He rubbed at his shoulder, realised he was doing it, and scrubbed that hand through his hair. "Among other things."

"Would— Would you like to talk about it?" Sherlock offered. It sounded like it pained him.

John smiled despite himself and shook his head. "No," he said, "it's all right. But it's… good of you to offer."

Sherlock shrugged. In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off. John sat down in the armchair by the fireplace as Sherlock went through to make the tea. Through the windows, John could see the moon above Baker Street. It was half-illuminated, waxing, and it was the only thing visible in the sky. The carpet under his toes was cool and plush.

Sherlock put a steaming mug down beside him and sat in the other chair, holding his own mug with the tips of his fingers and letting the steam drift into his face. He took a sip, his eyes fixed on John. John looked back. 

"This restaurant is not going to burn down," Sherlock said.

"Well, it has caught fire once already, so I think I can be excused from thinking that, even subconsciously."

"You're fixated on the disaster."

"It was a pretty big disaster!"

"But you're staying here anyway."

"Because I trust you."

That shut Sherlock up. He stared at John and sipped his tea thoughtfully.

John signed and put his mug down. "I'm— I'm just anxious about the opening."

"Could've fooled me," Sherlock said.

"Harry's coming," John said. "She texted me to say so. And Mary Morstan."

"Mycroft will be there. His assistant."

John said, "Hmm."

"My mum and dad."

"You emailed them, then?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking embarrassed. "Eventually."

"Aww," John said, "you do care."

"John, please."

John chuckled. "I can't wait to meet them."

"They're boring."

"I'm sure they're lovely. I bet they're proud."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They're just glad you haven't fired me yet."

"I can't fire you," John reminded him. "We're partners."

"You could leave," Sherlock said softly.

John made a garbled noise of disbelief. "Wh— Leave? After all this? Why would I do that?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, putting down his mug with a thump and avoiding John's eyes. "Risk of fire? Too much bloody trouble?"

"Have I given you the impression that I want to leave?"

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his curls. "No!" he said. "I just—"

"Whatever it is, Sherlock," John interrupted, "don't think it. I've put a lot into this— _you_ 've put a lot into this—and I'm not about to just walk away. You— This— This turned me around, all right? I was going mad. I needed this. I need it. I'll need it tomorrow, and in a month, and next year, probably."

"You don't know—"

John got up from his chair. "It was just a dream, Sherlock. I'm not having second thoughts." He stepped across the rug and took Sherlock's hands. "Come on. It's almost four. We need to be up in six hours to open our bloody restaurant."

Sherlock let himself be pulled to his feet, and he followed John docilely into his bedroom. John liked Sherlock's bed better; it was bigger and the sheets were nicer, and occasionally it had Sherlock in it. He climbed in under the duvet and waited as Sherlock stripped down to his pants and made a detour into the bathroom to brush his teeth and pee. He lifted the edge of the duvet for Sherlock to slide in beside him. Sherlock cuddled up to him immediately, draping his long limbs over John's body.

"Thanks for the tea," John whispered, when Sherlock had turned out the light and settled down, heavy and warm against him.

"Anything you need," Sherlock replied.

Buttoning up the whites made Sherlock's nervousness recede to the back of his mind, where it belonged. To be fair to himself, he had never run his own opening night before, but he had had plenty of first days with which to prepare. He stood in front of the long mirror in his bedroom, contemplating the picture he made. Head Chef. It even said so on the front of his jacket. John had one too, with his name and the designation _Head Chef_ , but he didn't know about it yet. Sherlock had ordered all the coats together and just put that one aside. John might need it, but Sherlock didn't want to pressure him into wearing it. He'd come 'round eventually.

***

Behind Sherlock, the bed was rumpled on one side and neatly made on the other: evidence that John had been there and gone. He was downstairs now, puttering around the kitchen, checking the mise en place or adjusting the dishwasher or realigning all the cutlery; whatever it was that he did to get ready. Sherlock could still feel the phantom sensation of John's exhale on the back of his neck while they'd slept.

His pocket vibrated. Sherlock pulled his phone out.

_**Message from John Watson:** _  
_Enough preening. Time to work._

Sherlock smiled. He slid his phone back to safety and smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket. Into battle.

The porters arrived at half-three, even though everything their usual tasks would involve had been done over the last month and perfected the night before. The cooks and bar staff were in place by four, beginning their prep with lemon rind shavings and ice spheres. At half-four, the wait staff arrived, and Sherlock stayed in the kitchen while Lestrade briefed them. They didn't need _another_ full briefing, having just got the same one yesterday, but John was nothing but thorough. Once Lestrade was done, John popped out to say hello, and by five o'clock they were ready to open the doors. Sherlock was already sweating under his coat.

"You all right?" John asked, hovering in the serving aisle and staying out of the kitchen area proper.

"You can come in here, you know," Sherlock said.

"I'm not cooking," John said, "so I'm not getting in your way."

"You're never in the way."

John shrugged. "Well, I know how to manoeuvre through an active kitchen, that's true, but I'm not going to risk it."

"John! You can walk through any space in this whole—"

"Can I see you in the office for a moment, please, Sherlock?"

Behind Sherlock, there was a little ripple of amusement from Hopkins, Gregson, and Molly. Sherlock controlled the impulse to bark at them and nodded once. 

John led him into the office and closed the door, and then kissed him soundly. He pressed himself full-length against Sherlock, and Sherlock sank back against the door to receive him. His tongue was warm and insistent and Sherlock melted into it, sliding his hands up John's back and returning the kiss.

"Now," John said, pulling away. His eyes were bright. "Are you all right?"

"Grand," Sherlock said, squeezing John's shoulders.

John grinned. "Good," he said. "You're brilliant, and amazing, and everyone coming tonight can't wait to see what you've got up your sleeve, yeah? They're ready to be impressed, Sherlock."

Sherlock wanted to say something cocky, about how people were always impressed when his cooking was in question, but it stuck in his throat. He swallowed and nodded.

"Right," John said, and gave him a little swat on the hip. "I'm going to go unlock the door, and we're going to blow some minds tonight."

The first twenty minutes were anticlimactic. At twenty past, on the dot, Mycroft walked in with his assistant, and John came back into the kitchen to report that they had been followed shortly by a _lovely_ older couple. Sherlock's spine straightened.

"Right," he said. "Have they ordered yet?"

"No, Sherlock, they've just walked in the door five seconds ago."

"Well, John, I don't need an update every time we get another customer, so unless they've ordered you can keep the guest count to yourself."

John smirked at him. "Yes, Chef," he said, and went back into the dining room. Sherlock could hear him welcoming Mr and Dr Holmes, introducing himself, and basking in their excitement. The timbre of his mum's voice carried through the service window. He turned to Hopkins and Gregson.

"Right, you lot," he said, "Mycroft's going to have Track 1 all to himself, if I'm not mistaken, which I never am, and my parents will probably order Track 3 for two. Anthea won't eat."

"Ooh," Toni said, "is that your mum and dad out there?!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Yes, and they haven't got a clue what they're doing with interesting food, so don't take it personally if they mix up the dishes."

Stanley busied himself with the agar plates and flexible tubes, prepping for Track 1. "No, Chef," he said. Sherlock could tell he was trying to hide his smile. Bloody hell.

"Will they come in after they're done and say hello?" Toni asked.

"Gregson!" Sherlock snapped. "Get the deep fryer ready; I've given you a head start on their orders and they haven't even placed them yet. I'm doing you a favour."

"Yes, Chef," she said, gleeful, and went to check that the fryer was hot enough.

John came back in, clipboard in hand. He'd taken their order himself, negating the need for their actual waiter, which was a ridiculous concession. Sherlock would have to remind him of the _point_ of waiters. "Track 1 for one and Track 3 for two on table six, please, Chef."

"Yes, John," Sherlock said, and got to work.

It was a favourable crowd that night, carefully cultivated from their relatives and associates. Mr and Dr Holmes lingered over their wine long after they'd experienced all six courses, though Mycroft finished his pudding and took off immediately with Anthea. Once he was gone, Sherlock went out to say hello. Dr Holmes took his hand between hers and gazed up into his face.

"We're so proud, Sherlock," she said, getting misty-eyed.

Sherlock shrugged.

"And that manager of yours, that John... Quite a catch, eh, Siggy?"

Sherlock's father nodded sagely. "Well done, Sherlock."

"Oh, my God," Sherlock said. He almost pulled away, but he looked up and saw John watching him from across the room. John met his eye and winked. Sherlock looked back down at his parents. "Yes, well," he said, "he's… good at his job."

Then, because he was out in the dining room already, Sherlock made a reluctant round of all the occupied tables and said hello to the crowd of family and friends that had turned up for their first night open. 

He recognised Harry Watson just in time, as he approached the table where she sat with two other women. A quick look was enough to suggest to him that one of them was Harry's partner, Clara, and the other was the the notorious Mary Morstan. They were sharing Track 2 between them, and were on the orange chicken parfait course. He put on his best smile and stepped up to the empty side of the table.

"Good evening," he said, "how are you enjoying your meal?"

They all gave him a long, slow look. He had been expecting that. He gazed back at them, implacable, smile stuck in place and one eyebrow raised in polite query. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John watching them.

"It's…" Harry said, "like nothing I've ever had before."

"That first course we had with… was it walnut?" Mary asked. "It was very interesting. The textures were so unexpected."

"I think it's fantastic," Clara said, putting her elbows on the table and folding her hands. She had a little bit of a lisp that she clearly had worked to diminish. It endeared her to Sherlock at once, although her dismissal of the other two's passive-aggressive not-quite-compliments certainly helped. "This is an incredible construction of flavours, and the sequence of them so far has been just amazing. My compliments."

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Chef Watson and I have worked very hard to get things just right."

"Well, I don't think John's got much to do with that," Harry snorted, picking up her water glass. There was no wine on the table.

Sherlock waited for her to elaborate.

"I mean," she said, as the silence grew uncomfortable, "all this molecular gastronomy's your business, isn't it? John's the management. That's what he said. He's not got _that_ refined a palate. Good taste, sure, but he could never come up with—" she indicated the parfait— " _this._ "

"John is indispensable," Sherlock said, "to every part of the process. Excuse me."

John cornered him just inside the kitchen door. "All right," he demanded, "what did you say to them?"

"I asked if they were enjoying their meal," Sherlock said, "and informed them that you are indispensable."

John stared at him. "That's all?"

"Did you want me to say more?"

"No, I just… I expected you to… deduce them. Is Harry having a drink?"

"I have a dinner service to run, John," Sherlock said. "Go find out for yourself."

"Fine," John muttered, grimacing. "Arse."

"Get out of my kitchen."

"Yes, Chef."

Sherlock tried to watch John's interaction with Harry through the service window, but he had to maintain the flow in the kitchen and keep everyone on the rails. It was a gentler service than he expected for the rest of the restaurant's career. Everyone who came in the door tonight they had personally invited, whether it was Gregson's sister and brother-in-law or a few of John's former employees. John's parents didn't come, he noticed, but he wasn't sure if they had been invited. John didn't talk about them much, except to confirm that he did, at some point or other, _have_ parents.

Throughout the rest of the evening, John provided updates on the number of active covers and the flow of the room. They had no major mishaps, and only one order that came back with a request for no coriander which meant they had to remake it entirely. Sherlock found he didn't mind. He wanted the guest, whoever it was, to enjoy their meal, even if eliminating a crucial ingredient changed the flavour balance of the whole dish. Harry, Clara, and Mary stayed a long time, lingering over their dessert. John nudged Molly to go out and say hello to them if she had a moment, and she came back glowing with pleasure.

"They loved the mousse," she said.

"Of course they did," Sherlock called. "It's impeccable. Don't let it go to your head."

She blushed right up to her hairline and hurried back to her station. "Yes, Chef! Thank you, Chef."

By ten o'clock they were finished. The last guests left, calling their farewells to the kitchen staff, and Lestrade locked the door behind them. The cooks startled Sherlock with a cheer, flicking their rags at one another, and Molly hugged John since he was standing nearest to her. He hugged back, looking surprised.

"We did it," he said as Molly let go. "Well done, everyone. Please don't forget your closing procedures; if you need them, the lists are hanging in the office, but I expect by now it should be habit."

"We should let them eat," Sherlock said. His own stomach was starting to growl, even though he'd eaten before service.

"Right." John grinned at him. "Thank you, Chef. What've we got left?"

They dined on leftover parfaits and risotto, hot battered fish and ultrasonic chips, and mango egg shooters. The bar staff came in to join them, and soon the kitchen was noisy again with laughter and self-congratulation. John came over and tucked in beside Sherlock at the prep table, just close enough that Sherlock could feel the warmth of his arm but not so close that they were giving anything away. He hoped. Not that he cared, particularly. It made his stomach jump to think that John was on his side in more ways than one.

John was dipping chips into a tub of centrifuged pea butter, and Sherlock accepted a proffered chip. It had gone a bit soft as it cooled down.

"Your sister enjoyed herself," he said, licking his fingers.

John licked his lips and stared down at the tub of pea butter for a moment. "Well," he said. "She wasn't exactly happy to see me, but she did come of her own free will. Unless Clara strong-armed her, which is entirely possible."

"She enjoyed herself," Sherlock said again. "She might begrudge you for it anyway, but they wouldn't have stayed if they'd hated it."

Huffing a laugh, John put the pea butter down. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest and licked his lips. "I suppose," he said. "I'm almost more afraid that she _did_ love it. Talk about a slap in the face."

"John," Sherlock said, turning to face him, leaning with one hip against the table, "you have to forget about trying to get her approval. She's never going to be happy that you're successful without her. That's just who she is."

John's expression was closing down; Sherlock knew this wasn't the best or the nicest thing he could be saying right now, but he had to say it.

"You are so much more than her," he went on, reaching out to grip John's elbow. "Worth so much more; capable of so much more."

"All right," John said, dislodging Sherlock's grip but brushing his fingers down Sherlock's arm as he went, so it wasn't a complete dismissal. "Can we— Not now? It doesn't matter."

Sherlock nodded, trying to parse the frown on John's face. John wasn't angry, but he was thinking hard. He was quiet for the rest of the time the kitchen staff were there, through their finishing the meals and cleaning up, only speaking up to issue directions and confirm orders, and then to say goodbye as the staff took off. When he and Sherlock were alone again, they went upstairs in silence, Sherlock one step behind John. John closed the bathroom door on him, and Sherlock heard the shower start up.

Right. Well, John was here, and not back at his horrible excuse for a flat. That had to be reassurance enough. He'd already said he wasn't going to leave Sherlock in the lurch so soon.

Sherlock set to tidying up the flat kitchen. He'd left a variety of experiments half-finished, some of them more than a week old since he'd had less and less time to work on them as the opening approached. Some of them had true potential for interesting meals, but he had taken notes. He could come back to them. When he heard the shower shut off, he abandoned the dishes and tools half-washed in the sink, waiting for John to come out of the bathroom and go upstairs.

Instead, he heard his own connecting door open and close, and John moving around inside his bedroom. Then he heard the squeak of his bed springs as John got in.

Well, in that case.

The bathroom was full of steam and the water, when he turned it, on was still good and hot. Sherlock stripped and climbed in, slinging the curtain closed behind him. It smelled like John's shampoo. He stood for a few minutes under the water, letting it pummel the tension out of his shoulders and neck, before he set to his own quick wash. They had done it. They had opened a restaurant of his design in less than two months. They would do it again tomorrow, and the day after, and again and again until his reputation rewrote itself.

The water was starting to cool when he finally turned it off and got out. It was past midnight. He dried off and slipped into the bedroom. John stirred as he found his pajamas and dressed, and lifted the corner of the duvet for him. Sherlock couldn't hear the traffic noise from Baker Street; instead, John was breathing quietly beside him, his head propped up on his folded elbow. Sherlock turned to face him. He could see John's eyes gleaming in the dark, open but unfocused.

"You're right," John said softly, after a moment.

"Of course I am," Sherlock said.

John grinned and turned onto his back. "Don't rub it in," he said.

Sherlock slid closer and laid himself along John's side, easing his knee over John's thigh and his hand across John's belly. John was warm and damp and smelled good, fresh after the swirl of food smells in the kitchen. "Anything else I could rub for you, instead?"

It startled a laugh out of John, who curled his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Ah, go on," he sighed, and Sherlock grinned against his neck, slipping his fingertips beneath the waist of John's pants.


	10. Chapter 10

The first week of business went so smoothly that John was half-expecting the disaster that struck on the second night of Restaurant Week. They had a dining room full of people—strangers, actual paying customers with actual expectations—and they were experiencing demand for the entirety of the menu, prix fixe and a la carte. John was standing at the kitchen door, keeping an eye on the floor and having a muttered conversation with Lestrade about which waiters they wanted to keep when the sound of a commotion broke out in the kitchen.

"John!" Sherlock thundered. "Get in here, now!"

The tone could have been heard as angry, especially by the two tables of diners who were nearest the kitchen service window: a classic example of Sherlock Holmes's temper getting the better of him. John, however, had experienced him in enough different moods to recognise the undercurrent of alarm in Sherlock's voice, and dashed through the swinging door.

He didn't need to ask what the matter was: Paul Dimmock was holding a quickly reddening rag around his hand, and Sherlock was mopping blood up off the prep table. John stuck his head through the service window, summoning Lestrade, and then grabbed Paul by the elbow and pulled him to the office where the first aid kit was tacked to the wall outside the door. Paul was white-faced and sweating, and the blood dripped through his fingers. John sat him down in the office chair and knelt, kit in hand.

Lestrade appeared in the doorway. "John?"

"Call 999," John said, "and tell them we have a kitchen accident and they're to come in the alley. I don't want to see lights in front of the restaurant. Get someone out back to wait for it. And tell them to bloody well keep it down in the kitchen; we've got a dining room full of people we don't want to spook."

Lestrade went, and a moment later the clamour in the kitchen quieted. John peeled the rag away from Paul's hand and winced at the new flow of blood that welled up. The knife tip had caught Paul in the middle of his palm under his ring finger and sliced down towards his wrist. John could see the layer of fat under his skin that made up the meat of his palm. He swallowed hard against his gag reflex.

"Gloves," Paul croaked.

"Paul—" John started, but Paul said, "Gloves!" in a voice that brooked no argument.

John shook them out of the kit and snapped them on, before Paul let him anywhere near his hand again. The cut was almost four inches long, and the sterile cotton wool pad John covered it with was soaked through in a moment. John stuck another one on and began to wrap the whole thing in gauze.

"Can you feel your fingers?" John asked.

Paul nodded shakily.

"Hold it up above your head."

He'd seen enough cuts—experienced enough of his own—to know the drill. Still, being first-aid certified wasn't the same as being a doctor.

Sherlock stuck his head into the office. "John, I need you."

"Little busy here, Sherlock."

"I realise that," Sherlock said, "but the minute he's under the care of a trained medical professional, I need you on the line."

"Pardon?" John asked, but Sherlock was gone. _Shit._ Of course Sherlock couldn't sacrifice a cook in the middle of dinner service without needing a replacement. The kitchen wasn't in chaos without Paul yet, but everyone had been working at a pretty good clip since they'd started and they would fall behind quickly. He couldn't let that happen.

He sat with Paul, helping him keep his arm up over his head, until he heard the back door open and felt the cold rush of April air that accompanied it. Anderson appeared in the office doorway with an EMT in a blue jumpsuit behind him. John got out of the way so the EMT could crouch down in front of Paul and get a look at his hand.

"Neat job," the EMT said to John. To Paul, he said, "Come on, lad, can you stand?"

Paul got up on shaky legs. A second EMT pushed her way past John and Anderson, sliding in under Paul's other arm to give him some support as they led him outside. Through the open door to the alley, John could see the flashing lights of the ambulance. It hadn't made any noise in its approach, thank God. They didn't need to make any kind of news for anything but their food just yet. He watched as Paul was carefully seated on a gurney and strapped in, and then lifted into the ambulance. The doors closed.

Sherlock called his name again. "John! We're falling behind on Track 3 and I _need_ you."

John turned around. Sherlock was stationary in the middle of a whirlwind, the remaining chefs moving smoothly in a choreographed dance around him from station to station. His face was alight with possibility, pink from the heat of the kitchen and softened by the joy of creation and success. His eyes were bright and sparkling, the pressure of managing the people and food around him enhancing his enjoyment and his control. His white cloth cap, which John had initially thought would look silly on him, was perched at an improbably jaunty angle on his hair, and though his demand for John's attention was firm, he had the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his eyes at mouth. He wasn't discouraged by Paul's sudden removal from the kitchen: he saw it as a challenge and welcomed it. And John was his answer.

_Fuck._

"I can't, Sherlock," John said, "I'm not up—"

"Damn your arm," Sherlock said, loudly enough that Gregson looked up in surprise. "I don't have time for your excuses, John; I need you in my kitchen, and I need you now. You know the recipes. You know the techniques. Everything is in place."

"Sherlock—"

"You've never struck me as a coward, John, and I am rarely wrong about people. Now, your coat is in the office behind the door; find an apron, and start piping some fucking peas."

John, open-mouthed with shock, found the coat hanging where Sherlock had said it was. It was the same white coat that the rest of the cooks were wearing, and it had his name on the front. _Head Chef._ Christ, when had Sherlock been planning to unveil this one? Good place to hide it, though; John would never have looked. He took off his button-down and shrugged on the coat. It fit perfectly. He fastened it up to the neck, shaking his head, and plucked a spare apron off the door.

John had never been called a coward before, not even by his sister. And yet, Sherlock had made it sound nothing but affectionate. John was _not_ a coward, his hand was steady, and Sherlock needed him. Fuck it.

Toni Gregson took over Dimmock's spot, so John filled in where she had been. The piping bag of centrifuged pea butter was leaking onto the pictures of all the courses in "Track 2: Fish & Chips" that were cling-wrapped to the prep table beneath. The plates were already set out, so John picked up the bag, glanced again at the demo, and began piping. The motion was smooth and easy, the feel of the bag in his hand familiar, and in a minute the plates were all ready for their next element. John looked up at Sherlock for guidance.

Sherlock was beaming at him. "Give them to Gregson," he said, indicating Toni with a wave of his hand and not taking his eyes off John. "Then get two of the triangle plates down and do me two servings of the tomato soup noodles."

"The bloody noodles," John said, grinning.

He fit right into the whirl of the kitchen, here between Sherlock and Toni, the line cooks around them, with Molly on the other side of the room and Lestrade moving in and out of the dining room in John's stead. He moved a little more slowly than the others did, but they only hassled him enough to keep him going. His arm did start to ache after the first hour, his left little finger going numb, but Sherlock noticed at once and set him to refilling the piping bags and cracking the glass crisps into shards. As soon as his hand felt normal again, Sherlock had him back on the line, plating meals and adding garnishes right before the plates went out the door.

"You're doing fine," Sherlock muttered in his ear, sometime after nine o'clock. There was a lull in service, and John was wiping sweat off his face with a rag.

"I'm hideously out of practice," John said. "I feel like I've run a marathon without doing any training."

Sherlock patted him on the good shoulder. "Well, you're slow, but you'll do for now."

"Fuck right off," John said, nudging him with his elbow, but as Sherlock moved away, smirking, he had to admit that he did feel a little better. He wasn't going to be at his best, not without practice, but he was going to make his best attempt to keep Sherlock's kitchen— _his_ kitchen—moving. The cooks had his back. Sherlock was counting on him.

 

Molly left at ten, leaving a refrigerator full of completed desserts behind her just in case. At eleven, they locked the doors, fed the staff, and started cleaning up. By midnight, Sherlock and John were the only ones left in the restaurant. Sarah and Craig had only left only ten minutes ago, and Lestrade had just walked out the door, calling goodbye over his shoulder, when Sherlock pressed John up against the prep table in the middle of the room and kissed him.

"Not here," John protested, "Sherlock—" but Sherlock hooked his hands around the backs of John's thighs and lifted him to sit on the edge of the table. He kissed John into temporary acquiescence, pulling John's groin against his own, and John sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair and gave in. Sherlock rubbed their hips together, moaning into John's mouth.

"We're not fucking in this kitchen," John said, when Sherlock let him go to focus on the corner of his jaw instead.

"Why not?" Sherlock said. "It's ours."

"It's not sanitary."

"We can clean up."

"I'm not risking our food hygiene rating to get off with you here when there's a dozen perfectly good, food-irrelevant surfaces upstairs."

" _Fine,_ " Sherlock groaned, but as he started to pull away, John hooked his heels around the backs of Sherlock's knees to keep him in place. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and nuzzled in against Sherlock's throat.

"I didn't say we couldn't snog, though."

Sherlock's laugh rumbled through John's chest, and he hugged John tightly, burying his face in John's hair. When he let go, John leaned back and gazed into his eyes. Sherlock returned the gaze, his expression serious and fond at the same time.

"When were you going to give me this coat?" John asked. He was still wearing it, and he didn't quite want to take it off, even though he'd just worked most of a dinner shift and knew the coat needed to be laundered immediately. He could smell his own sweat under the food aromas that permeated the fabric.

Sherlock blushed. He started to unsnap the coat, starting at John's collarbone. "When the time was right," he said.

John smirked at him. "You didn't have a plan," he accused. He leaned in, dragging his lips up Sherlock's throat to the point of his chin, then kissing his mouth gently. Sherlock exhaled a little puff of air and kissed John in return, lingering. His tongue touched John's lips, and John let him in, pulling him closer by the back of his stiff white coat. Sherlock was already hard, his erection pressing between John's legs, and John gave a little shove of his hips that made Sherlock groan.

"Fine," Sherlock said, and pulled hard, making all the snaps come undone at once. He pushed the coat off John's shoulders. "I didn't have a plan. It was pure sentiment. I didn't think you'd ever consent to cook for me."

"I've cooked for you," John protested.

"Not in _this_ kitchen." Sherlock's hands slid up underneath his T-shirt, pushing it up his torso until it was stopped by John's arms which were still wrapped around Sherlock's body.

"All right," John said, giving Sherlock a push away from the table and slipping down. He fixed his shirt. "Enough. Let's go. Are these surfaces clean enough to eat off?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, Chef."

They ducked out of the restaurant into the cold night air and hustled in at the flat door as quick as they could. John led Sherlock upstairs, shedding clothing as soon as he reached the upper landing. Behind him, Sherlock was doing the same, draping his coat over the newel post and had unfastened his trousers by the time they reached Sherlock's bedroom door. John abandoned his T-shirt on the floor inside the doorway, but kept going, shedding his jeans en route to the bathroom. He was fully naked when he reached the shower, and Sherlock made a noise of surprise when John turned the water on.

"I thought we were going—"

John raised an eyebrow at him over his shoulder.

"Right," Sherlock said, and finished stripping. A moment later he had shut the bathroom door and was plastering himself to John's back as the little room filled with steam. He ran his hands over John's shoulders, caressing John's scar, and he bent to kiss to the smooth, pink skin in deliberate acknowledgement of it. He had a bit of a fixation, John thought. His prick was rigid against John's lower back. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's body, fingers dancing across his skin, pinching one nipple and then the other, then circling around John's heavy, half-hard cock. The wet head of Sherlock's prick was leaving a slick trail on John's skin. John almost regretted stepping away from him to climb into the tub and under the spray of the water, except that he knew Sherlock was following.

Sherlock obliged, getting in behind him, and once the shower curtain was safely closed, Sherlock gathered John in his arms to kiss him again. He turned so that John was shielded from the spray, taking the brunt of it on his shoulders, and John muttered, "Oi!" into his mouth. He felt Sherlock grin.

"I was in that kitchen longer," Sherlock protested, and let go of John to bend his head back under the water. John was captivated, once again, by the impossible length of his throat, the smooth expanse of his collarbones and chest. Sherlock's forearms were scarred with little burn marks and cuts, the toll exacted by time spent around hot oil and sharp knives, but his upper body was so flawless it made John's jaw clench with want. He applied his tongue to the water running down over Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock murmured in warm appreciation.

John reached for the shampoo on the rack behind him and squeezed a little too much into his hands. As soon as Sherlock lifted his head John turned them around, positioning himself under the spray. He dug both hands into Sherlock's hair, lathering. Sherlock's knees wobbled and he slapped a hand against the tile wall to steady himself. The purr that rumbled out of his chest made John swear to try and repeat this experience more often. As the water sluiced down his back, washing away the layer of sweat from the kitchen, he washed Sherlock's hair with a gentle sort of vigour, keeping the soap out of Sherlock's eyes, but being sure to give his hair a few firm tugs to keep him pliant. Sherlock's cock stood up proudly out of the thick, black curls of hair at his groin. Its rosy head was peeking out of its foreskin, gleaming.

John let go and rinsed his hands, and then ducked to wet his own hair. It took Sherlock a moment to catch his breath, but as soon as he was able he pulled John in for a deep kiss. John rotated them again, giving Sherlock the chance to rinse. Sherlock did, as quickly as possible, and scrambled to return the favour, pouring John's less ridiculous shampoo into his hands and smearing them into John's hair.

"Don't waste it," John said, tipping his head forward to give Sherlock access.

"Oh, do shut up," Sherlock said. "If the excesses of this shower guarantee you run out earlier, so be it. I welcome it. You deserve better shampoo."

John snorted with laughter and reached out to hold onto Sherlock's biceps. Sherlock chuckled, his fingers gentling. He tipped John's head back and kissed him again, slowly. Despite the heat of the shower, his nipples were hard. John wasn't in any more dignified a state: his erection bobbed when he stepped forward to get closer to Sherlock, and they both gasped when they came into contact. Sherlock's right hand left John's hair and slid down his back to grab at his arse to pull him closer.

"Rinse," John gasped, "then— I don't know— fuck me, I want you to fuck me."

Sherlock moaned and spun them so that John was under the spray again. It was a wonder they hadn't fallen down yet. As John ruffled his hand through his hair to get the shampoo out, Sherlock was fumbling around with his conditioner. It filled the room with the heavy scent that John still associated with the night Sherlock had gone to his knees in front of him.

"Right," Sherlock said, manoeuvring John out of the water once more and washing his hands. He made John face the wall, keeping one broad hand on his back, and John heard him open another bottle. John turned.

"You better not be about to put shampoo up my—"

"No," Sherlock said quickly, and squeezed out the gel over his fingers. "It's… it's silicone-based lube."

John, keeping one hand braced on the wall, narrowed his eyes. "Did you plan this?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed.

"So you keep lube in an unmarked bottle in the shower…?"

Sherlock flushed. "Yes."

John smirked at him. "All right, Romeo," he said, facing the wall again.

"I know better than to use soap!" Sherlock cried.

"Apparently."

Sherlock growled and got up close behind John, wrapping both arms around him. One was a tight band around John's middle, holding him securely, while the other ended up low, Sherlock's warm, deliciously slick hand curling around John's prick. Sherlock's cock slid between John's cheeks and rubbed against his bollocks. John's teasing dissolved at once and he bowed his head, baring his neck to Sherlock. Sherlock bit him, at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and stroked him slowly, his hand tight. Water sluiced down Sherlock's shoulders and dripped onto John's.

"You'll thank me," Sherlock muttered.

"Thank you," John gasped.

"Better." Sherlock kissed the bite mark and smoothed his slick hand up John's belly and over his hip. Still holding John close, he eased his hand between them, angling his own hips back to give himself room. His fingers slid over John's arsehole, teasing. The air was full of steam, but Sherlock's body was hotter, everywhere his skin came into contact with John's. His mouth on the back of John's shoulder burned.

Sherlock took John's prick in hand again as he began to massage the tight muscle of John's hole, and John was trapped there between the dual pleasure. Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the tender, wet head of his dick, which made him jolt; so Sherlock did it again, and again, until he was practically vibrating. Then, just as it started to become too much, Sherlock went back to stroking him from root to tip in long, smooth strokes, drawing his foreskin away from his head and then surrounding it again. All the while, Sherlock's fingers worked against his hole, until finally Sherlock sank one in.

The angle wasn't ideal, but Sherlock's long fingers sorted most of the awkwardness. John tipped his head back against Sherlock's shoulder and groaned, spreading his legs. His cock throbbed in Sherlock's grip. Sherlock kissed his cheek. 

"I want to make you come," Sherlock said, low and earnest in his ear. 

John shuddered. "Yeah, okay." Sherlock's finger sank deeper, and then John's whole body spasmed at the first brush against his prostate. It had been, he was willing to admit, a very long time since he'd had anything inside him like that, and he was almost too sensitive. "Shit, oh."

Sherlock backed off a little. He eased a second finger in beside the first but didn't press as deep, just working them in and out to loosen John's rim. He was still stroking John, somewhat erratically, but John could feel the first glimmer of his orgasm approaching. He leaned forward and braced his hands on the wall, taking a few inches of shower curtain with him. This tub wasn't designed for two people to fool around in it, but John was damned if that was going to stop them.

"Tighter," he said.

Sherlock focused his attention on John's cock, tightening his grip, while his other fingers still worked shallowly and slowly inside John. His mouth was on John's shoulder again, and his wet hair tickled John's ear. His prick bumped John's thigh. He stroked John slowly, deliberately, and John let himself relax into the sensations. When the orgasm came, it was slow and luxurious, a gradual tightening of all his muscles that released in a jolt. He heard his own moan echoed in Sherlock's muffled grunt against his shoulder.

Sherlock gave him a moment to recover, letting go, and then eased his fingers out of John's arse. John leaned on his hands a moment longer, breathing deeply. He heard Sherlock rinsing the conditioner out of his hair. Then Sherlock said, "C'mere," and gathered John to him, aiming the shower head over John's shoulder to wash the semen off the plastic curtain.

"Clever thing," John said.

"Better now than later," Sherlock said, kissing his temple. "Done?"

"Done," John sighed.

Sherlock turned off the water and they climbed out carefully, wrapped themselves in towels, and went into the bedroom. It was refreshing to the point of chilly compared to the bathroom. John's hair was still wet, and if he left it alone it would end up drying in crazy spikes, but he wasn't about to stop and comb it now. He pushed back the duvet and crawled into the middle of the bed.

"Stay," Sherlock said, putting a hand on his hip when he started to turn over. "Just…" John felt the bed dip as Sherlock joined him, and then his shower-warm thighs brushed against the backs of John's. He had more lube, smeared onto John's overheated skin, and then two of his fingers sank deep into his arse again. John's knees skidded apart. He rested his head on his arm and breathed slowly as Sherlock fingered him, teased him, worked him open to be fucked. John could feel the nudge of Sherlock's cock against his buttock. Sherlock touched his prostate with more regularity now, getting him used to the sensation, and John moaned at every little flash of pleasure. He was too fucking old to get it up again right away, but if Sherlock played him right—and John was dead certain Sherlock could do that—he'd be hard again pretty soon.

Sherlock eased a third finger into him, but his patience was apparently reaching its limit for he only worked it in and out a few times before he was pulling out altogether. John heard him tear open a condom wrapper and shut the bedside table drawer, fumble for a moment, and then his right hand, the clean hand, settled on John's tailbone. The touch of his cock head against John's hole made John moan—he was so wet, so fucking eager, body clenching down on nothing and wanting quite the opposite.

The pressure against his internal muscles made him tense, which brought Sherlock to a halt at once. He groped behind him for Sherlock's thigh and made himself relax; Sherlock squeezed his hip as he sank a little deeper. He stroked the small of John's back, the length of his spine between John's pelvis and his ribs as he eased his hips forward. John dug his teeth into the meat of his forearm and breathed.

"All right?"

John nodded. Sherlock slid his other hand, a little tacky with drying lube, up John's side. His breathing was slow and deliberately steady. John felt the tickle of his hair against his thighs as Sherlock bottomed out. His nerves were singing with the mixed signals of alarm and pleasure.

Sherlock let out a long breath and John heard him swallow.

"You can move," he said. His voice was shot. He curled his toes in the sheet and lifted his head.

"Are you certain?"

"Damn it, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's laugh rumbled through him, and John groaned aloud as Sherlock eased back and then rocked forward again. It made his back arch and his prick give a hopeful twitch. Christ almighty. Sherlock moved slowly, pushing deep, until John's muscles had all relaxed and he was starting to squirm. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hips, pulling him back into the cup of his groin; his cock nudged John's prostate just right, sending a wave of heat up John's spine. John pushed up onto his hands and his left arm started to ache almost at once. Damn the thing. He folded himself back down onto his elbows.

"We can switch," Sherlock offered, breathless.

"No," John said, "too bloody late for that now."

Sherlock laughed again and leaned down so that his hands bracketed John's elbows and his elbows framed John's back. His hips moved in a slow circular grind, and John heard himself whimper. Sherlock lowered himself until his lips touched John's scarred shoulder. John was entirely surrounded by him: the smell and heat of his body, the strength of his arms and legs, the length of his cock. Sherlock pushed back up with a grunt, and the rhythm of his hips changed again to short, shallow thrusts. John let himself be buffeted by the motion, enjoying the lassitude of having already come, relishing the continued stimulation. The arousal hadn't gone away, and his cock was fattening up again between his thighs. Sherlock's breath was warm on his back.

Then Sherlock levered himself upright again and gripped John's hips in both hands; he began to fuck John with quicker, deeper thrusts, working his hips more forcefully. John stayed on his elbows, not trusting his arm anymore at all, but he could reach under himself and give his prick some encouraging squeezes. His cock hardened in his grip, and soon he was trying to spread his legs wider, arching his back to meet Sherlock's thrusts. Sherlock said, "God, yes," almost too softly to hear. His hands wandered across John's back and up and down John's legs, fondling his arse and massaging his hips.

"Go slow," John said, pushing up onto his right hand and gripping his cock tighter with the left. This worked.

Sherlock slowed down again, but John could feel the tension in him. He was restless, getting desperate, his thrusts a little erratic. John arched his back and looked over his shoulder. Sherlock's hair was wild and his face was flushed; sweat glittered in the hollow of his throat and in the crooks of his elbows. He licked his lips and flashed John a grin. "All right?"

"Perfect."

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. "Good." He smoothed his hands up John's arse and gave one cheek a little smack, testing. John arched an eyebrow at him. "Sorry."

"No, it's… fine. Just not too hard."

Sherlock gave him a squeeze instead and looked down at where his cock was moving in and out. John felt his face heat and had to look back down at the bed. Sherlock was quiet, only his ragged breathing giving away how close he was. John jerked his cock a little faster; he couldn't catch up to Sherlock, but he could feel the pleasure coiling up again. Sherlock's rhythm was gradually speeding up, despite his attempts to pace himself to John's request. The room was thick with the smell of sex, the scent of shampoo layered underneath it.

"Faster now," John said, and Sherlock groaned, hips jerking. His fingers went tight on John's hips and his thrusts grew vigorous as he let himself go. John braced himself on one hand and knees and worked his prick in earnest, fist sliding fast and slick up and down his length. Sherlock's bollocks slapped his backside with every thrust, and he could hear Sherlock's breathing change again; Sherlock's prick got harder inside him, and Sherlock gasped, "John!"

John nodded, if dropping his head and pushing back into Sherlock's thrusts could be counted as nodding. Sherlock whined through his teeth, his fucking growing wild, and then all at once he thrust in hard and groaned, pulled back and plunged in again, and again. John shuddered, tensing all over, his own cock swelling in sympathy. Sherlock said, "Fuck," and John snorted a laugh at his earnestness.

Sherlock pulled out, still breathing hard, and John rolled over onto his back with his throbbing cock still in hand. Sherlock said, "C'mere," and crouched, sealing his mouth around the tip of John's cock and sliding two fingers back into him. John shouted, hands flying to the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock sucked him hard and fast, fucking him fast and deep and rubbing his prostate with deadly aim. John's orgasm twisted hard inside him, sharp-edged and powerful, and he squeezed his fists in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock moaned, muffled by his mouthful. He twisted his fingers, thumb pressing hard against the root of John's cock behind his bollocks. It was enough; John's cock swelled and stiffened, and he could feel his arse clamp down on Sherlock's fingers. He came with a yell, hips lifting off the bed, pushing himself deep into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock held him up, strong and still, rubbing him slowly inside until he was shuddering.

"Enough," John gasped, "enough, Christ—"

Sherlock let him down and slid his fingers out. He pulled off and sat on his heels, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Between his thighs, his soft cock was still wrapped in latex. He peeled the condom off with a look of obvious distaste, and John couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of him. He hid his face behind the crook of his elbow, giggling helplessly, as Sherlock got off the bed, padded across the room, and came back. Then Sherlock was scooping him into an embrace, arms under John's shoulders and knees under John's thighs. He nudged John's arm out of the way and grinned down at him.

"So, how was that?" he asked. "Any good?"

"Oh piss off," John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissing his mouth. "You're just fishing for compliments."

"Maybe," Sherlock said, returning the kisses and rubbing his nose against John. "I'm hideously self-important, or so the reviewers have told me."

"Impossible to work with, too, I hear," John said. He slid his fingers into Sherlock's hair, enjoying the little purring hum Sherlock made. 

"Heartless," Sherlock said.

"Genius," John replied.

Sherlock stared down at him. John stared back, his smile fading into serious contemplation. Then Sherlock said, "That one's true."

John laughed. "Of course that one's true, you prat," he said, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's thighs and rolling them to their sides. "That's why we're here."

Sherlock smiled, pleased and a little shy. "I know," he said.

"Christ," John said, looking over his shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. It was past one in the morning. "I'm knackered."

Sherlock groped around behind himself for the duvet and pulled it over them, and then reached for the light. They spent a minute rearranging their limbs, and John ended up with his head on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's legs under one of his knees. They were sharing a pillow. He hardly ever got this close to people, and now here he was, tangled up with Sherlock without a complaint. Sherlock's fingers trailed slowly back and forth across his shoulder blade. 

"Remind me to ring Paul in the morning."

"Hmm?" Sherlock sounded half asleep already.

"Paul Dimmock, your chef who nearly cut his own hand off this evening."

"Hmm," Sherlock said.

John snorted and nestled in closer. "Never mind."

Sherlock sighed, "Hm."

 

Reviews for 221 started appearing the next day. After John called Paul to check up on him and confirm that he was out for at least a week—and to assure him he wasn't going to lose his job for it, that John would fill in until he could handle a knife again—Sherlock and John spent the morning in bed rifling through newspapers and review sites, looking for the best ones. Sherlock had admitted with a carefully cultivated air of nonchalance that he wanted to frame and hang them in the dining room downstairs.

"Here's one," John said, his mouth full of toast. He pointed at the screen of his laptop as Sherlock leaned over to look. "'221 on Baker Street is a refreshing and innovative restaurant that combines the chemist's laboratory with the top London cuisine. Head Chef Sherlock Holmes remixes classic British dishes with skill and panache, delivering a deconstructed fish and chips over a series of courses that will make you rethink what the dish even means. Manager and fellow chef John Watson, a veteran of _SuperChef: Doubles_ , runs a smooth and elegant dining room—'" He stopped and peered closer at the byline. "Wait a minute. Clara McTavish?"

"Your sister's Clara?" Sherlock asked, millimetres from John's ear. He was leaning into John's shoulder, holding a newspaper off to the side, and he smelled like coffee. "You didn't say she was a restaurant reviewer."

"She's— Well, I didn't know she was." John skimmed the rest of the article. "Bit of a conflict of interest, isn't there?"

"Possibly," Sherlock said, sitting up, "but I'm not going to comment on the post to tell everyone that."

"I wonder if Harry will forgive her for giving us a favourable review."

Sherlock scoffed. "You should invite Harry and Clara back again."

"Ah, no," John said, shutting the laptop. "We've barely been open three weeks."

"John," Sherlock said, "We've talked about this."

"Which is why we don't need to talk about it again." John threw back the duvet and got up to get more coffee. He could tell by the quality of the silence in the bedroom him that Sherlock wanted to say a great deal more, but he was grateful when Sherlock refrained.

Instead, Sherlock said, "Well, I'll print this anyway," and then John heard him tapping at the keys of the laptop. He glanced at the clock as he poured a fresh cup.

"Hey, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to get dressed, and then what do you say we go down and open up our restaurant?" He reached the bedroom doorway in time to catch the blossoming of Sherlock's infectious grin.

"Sounds perfect," Sherlock said, throwing down the paper and bounding out of bed.

"You might want to put on pants, too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, deeply inconvenienced. "Yes, Chef."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, thank you for coming on this very silly journey with me. I started imagining this fic in 2013, when I first saw [these sketches by Daunt](http://daunt.tumblr.com/tagged/chef) at Wincon in Las Vegas. It has been in the back of my mind since then, and has been half-written a few times. The approach of S4 finally compelled me to get off my ass and finish it.
> 
> I owe much gratitude to 1electricpirate and Jaradel_ for their support and sharp eyes, and to cacheth for the occasional plot consultation. I couldn't have finished this without you ladies.
> 
>  
> 
> [Finally, here is my Pinterest inspiration board for this fic. Get a load of that weird food.](https://www.pinterest.com/schmelinor/a-study-in-spherification/)
> 
> Will there be more chefs? I don't know. Never say never.


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